


Just A Girl

by EarthAngelGirl30



Category: Bandom, Blur, Brett Anderson - Fandom, Fiction - Fandom, Suede (Band)
Genre: 90's Music, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Band Fic, Bandom - Freeform, Coming of Age, Crossover, Crush at First Sight, Diabetes, Don't Judge Me, Don't Like Don't Read, F/M, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Inspired by Music, Love at First Sight, Love/Hate, Lust, Lust at First Sight, Medical Conditions, Moving On, Musical References, References to Illness, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rivalry, Romance, Secret Crush, Secret Relationship, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Sexual Humor, Shyness, Slow Romance, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, True Love, True Love's Kiss, bandfiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 137,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9600812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthAngelGirl30/pseuds/EarthAngelGirl30
Summary: Sam is a Northerner in London, and after a chance meeting with a musician she soon finds herself in a whole new world which doesn't just consist of sex, drugs and rock & roll.Rivalry, forbidden friendship and budding romance soon become part of her new life. How will she adapt, especially given her medical condition? Sometimes you can find stability in the most unexpected places.This story mainly focuses on my OC,  an insecure 17 year old with health issues, and her evolving relationship with the moody yet enigmatic Brett, after she hastily becomes involved with his housemate/rival, the self-assured yet likeable Damon. But is all as simple as it seems?I wrote this a long time ago, inspired by the Britpop era of the 90's. It's loosely based on the rivalry between two bands but unlike reality, this is set in a semi-alternative universe where the lead singers are frenemeies.Please note the timeline/details may vary from actual events. This is a work of pure fiction, the product of an overactive imagination, but it is peppered with facts. Please don't judge too harshly if you're a Suede/Blur fan, as it's just a bit of fun really.





	1. The Strangers

Manchester - Present Day

It's funny how when you're younger, break-ups always seem so much worse than they actually are.  
Now that I am older, I may not necessarily be wise per say, but still wiser than I was at the tender age of seventeen, I look back on my first failed relationship and thank my lucky stars that my ex broke my heart. Because not only did I come to realise that I wasn't as deeply in love with him as I thought I was, but I'm also eternally grateful to him for having cheated on me like he did. Because if he hadn't, I would never have taken that fateful trip down to London, and I would never have had the time of my life.

 

***** chapter one ******

 

London - 1992

"So, how long do you think you'll be staying for Sam?"

I heave an over exasperated sigh, knowing it won't be audible due to the surrounding racket of the marketplace. The continuous drone of chattering strangers, coupled with the bolshy voices of market traders trying to press their wares on the crowd, is loud enough to wake the dead. Above, the sound of a plane heading in to land at Heathrow, or possibly Gatwick or wherever - I mean, take your pick, London certainly isn't short on airports- added to the noise, and somewhere in the not-so-distant distance, a train could be heard rumbling.

"Not long." I reply simply, and wholeheartedly mean it. I have no intention of hanging around where I'm not particularly wanted.

"Ah, okay." Jane, my stepmother responds rather pointlessly. And maybe I'm being paranoid or has she brightened now? Maybe it's just my imagination but she cracks the first smile since we've left the flat.

Now don't get me wrong, Jane is a nice enough woman. And she makes my dad happy, which is all that matters. And it's not for me to question my father's sanity. But we've never really hit it off, for whatever reason. It's nothing to do with teenage angst, or me being jealous of her commanding my father's attention and all that jazz - I never have, nor never will be a 'daddy's girl' so to say. We've just never really gelled. Like oil and water, the two just don't mix. And it's as simple as that really.  
So when my dad practically begged me to come and stay with him and his new wife in South London - at my mothers behest - I agreed under duress, in order to appease my parents.

Following a particularly heinous break up with my boyfriend, my mood was low and I can only surmise that my mother was afraid I'd give my waste-of-space, cheating ex yet another chance (he'd already had one too many than he deserved) and I presumed she thought that I'd be safe from his manipulative clutches at the opposite end of the country.  
So clutching my newly purchased suitcase, I'd been put on a train, feeling like some sort of refugee, and was now doing my best to settle into the tiny spare room of my dad's Southwark flat.

Now aside from having to adjust to sharing a place with Jane, there are other issues. The first, more obvious yet trivial one being that I'm a Northerner in the South. And whilst this might not seem like a big deal, let me tell you that the majority of Londoners consider anywhere beyond Watford to be the 'North'.  
Being quite sensitive and shy by nature, down here I've come to realise I may as well be from another country...or even planet.  
It's not that I'm saying Londoners are unfriendly, but well...I'm starting to miss the little things one usually takes for granted. Such as chatting to people in the corner shop. Polite chit-chat such as commenting on the weather is pretty much considered Northern etiquette. Here if you attempt to start a conversation with a stranger people look at you as if you're mad. 

Same applies when asking for chips and gravy in any London chippy. It's cheesy chips all the way - what kind of savage wants gravy with their chips? Well, a Northern one apparently. And God forbid don't mistake a saveloy for a sausage. Which leads me on to my accent...the minute I open my mouth anywhere I feel like a complete foreigner. Hailing from a small town near Manchester, I consider myself to have quite a neutral accent (so my drama teacher used to tell me) so I don't sound particularly Manc. However I may as well be walking around saying "by eck!" judging by some of the looks I've had when buying my cigarettes.

Anyway, I digress...the other problem I've had to deal with is my dad's response to my health condition. I'm what's known as a type1 diabetic, which roughly means my pancreas doesn't produce insulin which is required to sustain the level of sugar in the bloodstream. I inject myself with two shots of insulin a day, and I need to monitor my diet so as not to have too much sugar or too little carbs.  
I've lived with the condition since the age of eight, but as my dad has never really been around, he not only doesn't understand what it entails but also fusses over me to the point of driving me mad.  
It's sweet of him, and yes if my blood sugar goes too high or too low it can be dangerous - but I can handle it. Well, I seem to have done alright so far. Given I'm still alive and haven't fallen into any coma's as yet.

So it is this rather irksome (to say the least) condition of mine which leads to Jane and I ending up in the next pub we come across.  
My hands have started to tremble and I'm feeling pretty lightheaded - both tell tale signs that I'm in need of something to eat, or at the very least a sugary drink. After having traipsed around Borough market all afternoon, it's hardly surprising. Being as physical activity causes my sugar levels to drop.

We step inside and I'm hit with a wave of warmth and smell of alcohol which is strangely familiar and comforting. The sound of the hustle and bustle outside gives way to the sound of a jukebox playing in the corner, and the low hum of the handful of customers talking amongst themselves.  
It is a long room, with a pool table at one end, and a small stage tucked into the corner at the other, with several tables and chairs dotted around.

"Do you want to grab some lunch?" Jane asks as we approach the bar, and the landlord overhears and swoops in before I can answer.

"Sorry ladies. Finished serving now, it's gone half past two." He informs us, with an apologetic smile.

"That's okay, I'll just have a large coke and maybe a bag of crisps." I say, depositing myself on a barstool before I totter over.

Jane nods, handing me a five pound note and for a moment I wonder if she's forgotten that I'm seventeen and not twelve. But before heading off to the ladies toilet, she asks me to order her a 'small wine'

Having overheard, the landlord turns to me and asks, "Red or white?"

"Umm.." I am totally stumped. Ashamed to admit that I have no idea. He's looking at me expectantly and I'm aware of other people hanging around the bar, and suddenly feel like a silly little girl.  
"I'm..not...sure." I manage feebly.

"Does she like sweet wine or dry?" He adds helpfully. Except this isn't helpful. I'm at a loss. He may as well have asked me her favourite colour.  
"I'll wait til she comes back and ask her. What can I get you treacle?"

"Oh, just a large coke please. No ice. Thanks." I mutter, and quickly do a scan of the surrounding area to see if anyone is sniggering at my awkwardness.

I find that no one seems to have noticed, and couldn't care less if I had grown another head whilst sitting here. But what I do notice is the figure sat at the opposite end of the bar.  
At first glance I assume it to be a man, but then I do a double-take. They have longish brown hair, pushed back behind their pierced ears.  
Is it a woman? I can't tell. Not that it matters either way, but they're so impossibly pretty I decide it can't be a man. But...there's a certain chiseled look to the jaw, and the eyes seem too deep-set to be female. Their nose is long, and has a slight kink in it, betraying signs of it possibly having been broken at some point. If it wasn't for this minor imperfection, the face would've been almost too perfect. Even though the flaw is barely noticeable, I somehow notice. Realising then that I've been staring too hard and for too long.  
Fortunately for me they are thoroughly absorbed in their newspaper, which is spread out on the bar in front of them, next to a half drunk pint of lager. 

The landlord places my own drink in front of me, which I hastily gulp down. Thoughts returning to my current situation, I find my mind beginning to wander back to Mark...even though I promised myself I wouldn't think about him today.

Just then, a door at the side of the stage bangs open, and a larger than life, slightly scruffy looking young man bounds in. Shattering my thoughts.

"Give us a pint will ya, Mick?" He demands rather than asks, but his tone is jovial enough. 

Call me nosy, but I watch with keen interest as he makes a beeline towards the genderless figure.

"Not a bad soundcheck that mate." 

"Hm" Gender-neutral responds noncommittally, not bothering to look up from the paper. And I find myself thinking what a little ray of sunshine this person is. Or isn't, as it were.

"Obviously I am talking about ours and not yours!" Chortles the smiley one, who then does none other than look across right at me, and catches me gawping.

I turn away quickly, and pretend to suddenly find my fingernails fascinating. I can feel my face heat up, and will it to go away, cursing the way I blush so easily.  
But before I know what is happening, Mister Jovial is at my side. I have no idea how he got there, it seems as if I blinked and missed it. Perhaps he can teleport like a mutant. 

"Ello darlin', not seen you in here before." He points out, and I'm forced to look at him, despite still feeling flustered. "Can I get you another drink?"

"Um, no thanks."

"Aw, come on. What'ya drinking, vodka and coke?" He persists and flashes a sweet, yet slightly crooked smile that I find inexplicably endearing - in spite of his somewhat overbearing manner.

"No, just coke. But I'm fine honestly." I manage a weak smile in return.

"Just coke?" He narrows his deep blue eyes at me suspiciously, as though he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "How old are you, love?"

I hesitate briefly, feeling the prickle of heat rise up my neck. "Eighteen." I lie, and I know for a fact that I don't sound convincing.

Without intending to, my eyes momentarily wander passed the handsome stranger, and come to rest on his androgynous associate. I'm surprised to see him/her looking up now, apparently watching us curiously. They give me a slow, deliberate look, letting me know that they're aware that I just lied about my age. My blush deepens, and the hint of a smile plays upon their lips, remaining firmly in place even as they return their attentions back to the paper in front of them.

"Well then, why aren't you having a proper drink? Ere, I'll get ya' one." My new companion is saying now, and to my relief, is none the wiser to my fibbing.

"I'm diabetic, alcohol affects my blood sugar so I don't really drink." I find myself explaining as a means to excusing my reluctance to accept his gracious offer. 

"Sounds bloody awful. That must be so boring. Surely one drink can't hurt though."

"She said no, Damon." A voice, distinctly male, pipes up from the end of the bar and we both follow the sound. Gender-neutral appears to be a man after all, and he's sitting up straight now, folding his newspaper (which I note is a copy of the Melody Maker.)

"Yeah I heard thanks, mate. Unlike yours, my hearing is perfectly adequate." The handsome stranger - aka Damon - exclaims irritably, and shoots the pretty one a disgruntled look, which he purposely ignores.

"Your hearing might be, but your understanding is clearly lacking." The man I had formerly thought to be a woman fires back, before standing. He's tall, and slender without being too skinny. The sleeves on the baggy, over-sized T.shirt he's wearing hang down to his elbows.

Damon's already turned away, and I notice is looking at me again. His eyes scanning my face, I feel quite giddy as a result of this man paying me such close attention. He's incredibly good looking, with long eyelashes and the cutest upturned nose.

"Are you coming to our gig tonight?" He drawls, in his prominent cockney accent. "It'll be a good show."

"Are you in a band?" I ask, my voice sounding more eager than I would have liked. But I'm a massive live music fan, and a sucker for boys with guitars.

He beams widely at me, his smile seems to cut through the afternoon gloom, lighting up the entire room. "Yeah, you should come check us out."

I'm about to reply when for the briefest of moments I'm distracted once more by the pretty man, who has since meandered closer and is now standing adjacent to Damon. He makes a strange, barely audible sound. Like a cross between a snort and a sigh. I look at him, his eyes are affixed on Damon, who sensing his presence suddenly rolls his eyes.

"Brett's band are playing too. But they aren't as good as we are." He remarks almost dismissively.

Brett...Damon...do all men around here have names like this? Perhaps I've led a sheltered upbringing, only ever having met boys with what I naively and perhaps ignorantly consider to be 'normal' less glamorous names. Still, this is London after all. Boho, beatnik central. Filled with chic, über cool creative individuals, and I suddenly feel so out of place, like Dorothy having awoken in Kansas.

Pretty-boy Brett doesn't respond, he merely saunters away to the nearby pool table where he joins the two men who are currently mid-game.

"So, d'ya fancy it?" Damon presses, and without further hesitation I find myself agreeing happily.

By the time Jane finally reappears after having taken an impossibly long time, my new friend has bid me goodbye and vanished backstage - only after my having promised to come back later that night, in order to watch his band perform.  
I finish my coke, and once seeing that I haven't been able to order her a wine after all, Jane decides she's not fussed about a drink and suggests heading home.

As we step out onto the pavement, I feel decidedly excited and nervous in equal measures. Wondering what the night ahead may bring.  
All I have to do now is find something suitable to wear, and somehow manage to convince my dad to let me out by myself. Ugh.


	2. Introducing The Band

Blur is the name of the first band to play, and after having dressed in faded black jeans and a black skinny rib top, I'm starting to wish I'd made more of an effort.  
Whilst the overall reception to the fuzzy guitar pop numbers they churn out is a bit hit and miss, it's the lead singer, the delectable Damon, who seems to be going down a storm.  
He has, I notice to my dismay, attracted quite a following of predominantly female fans, who gather around the front of the stage, leaving me hovering off to the side, feeling slightly ridiculous. 

My mass of dirty blonde hair, which has a slight natural coppery hint to it, hangs down passed my shoulders in unruly waves. I'm only wearing tinted moisturiser, black mascara and a tiny smudge of charcoal liner along my upper eyelids. My peach lip balm has all but worn off, having now transferred onto the rim of my glass. In the heat of the pub, and under the lights shining out from the stage I feel as if what little makeup I have on, is melting off.  
Yet the beautifully painted gaggle of girls who are swooning over the band's frontman, look perfectly put together.  
They're fully made up, and their crop tops, colourful micro skirts and platform shoes are a far cry from my scuffed Doc Marten boots.

The band are well into the fifth or sixth song of their set, when I realise I've finished my drink. Contemplating whether or not it's worth fighting my way through the crowd that has formed behind me in order to get to the bar, I stand for a while nursing my empty glass, absentmindedly bobbing my head along to the music. 

I'm watching Damon bound and bounce across the small stage, when suddenly I'm aware of a tall figure looming over me.  
I look up, and it takes my brain a moment to register who it is, their presence catching me completely off guard.

"Oh. H-hi." I stammer with a nervous smile, feeling immediately flustered and strangely self conscious. And then I silently curse myself for being the first one to speak.  
Brett...that's his name isn't it? Yes that's right, pretty-boy Brett. His face is quite unforgettable, and in such close quarters, his stunning features are startlingly sublime. He really is far too beautiful to be a man.

"What'cha." He replies (which I think is a Londoners way of saying "Hello") and without returning the smile, nods his head, indicating towards the empty glass I'm clutching.  
"D'you want another?" He asks simply. And I blink rapidly, not sure why I'm so surprised by the offer.  
"It's Coke isn't it?" He clarifies, leaning closer in order to be heard over the grungy tune that's emanating from the speakers. "Diet, yeah?"

"Y-yes. If you don't mind? Thanks." 

Without saying another word he reaches out, taking the glass from me, his long fingers accidentally skimming my own. I feel a small spark of excitement with the brief contact, which I find confusing and unsettling.  
Why am I stammering like an idiot? And why has my pulse suddenly sped up?

His tall, lean figure vanishes into the crowd, and for the first time I take in what he's wearing. Black fitted jeans hang low on his narrow hips, and on his upper body a tight-fitting shirt that actually looks more like a woman's blouse, clings to his form mercilessly.  
He's certainly a sight to behold, and amidst this sea of baggy clothed men he sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb. Attracting several confused, and perplexed glances from the more testosterone-fuelled, beery types.

The music shudders to a halt, and a round of applause goes up, pulling my focus back to the stage where Damon is now expressing his thanks and announcing the next song as their final one.  
At the front a girl screams, and he rewards her by blowing a kiss, resulting in her squealing with unabashed delight.

Oh he's good. I think to myself. He has a way of working the audience, especially the women, and he seems to revel in their attention. Like a true rockstar. 

I don't stand a chance. 

The guitars start up again, and I watch him sway along to the music. His sports brand, long sleeved T.shirt, and baggy denim jeans are befittingly grungy. Coupled with his choppy, dark blonde hair with it's feathered fringe that skims his baby blue eyes, I can see why he's so popular with the ladies. He's unapologetically attractive, and his scruffy, careless look gives him a cool edge. He's confident, the way he swaggers across the stage in his adidas trainers betrays a self-assured attitude that somehow adds to his appeal.

Behind me, I sense people move, and turn to see Brett returning. A glass in one hand, bottle in the other, the crowd seem to part for this anomaly of a man like the Red Sea.

"There you go." He states, and I take the glass of cola from him gratefully.

"Thanks very much." I smile, but he doesn't hear me so leans in once more, and I inadvertently breath him in. He smells clean and fresh like soap, a scent that's quite at odds with the stench of cigarette smoke and alcohol which hangs in the air.  
"I said thank you." I repeat in his ear, and duly note that my pulse is misbehaving again.

"No problem." He shrugs, and for the first time I see him smile. It's a sort of slow, lazy smile that makes his eyes crinkle, and a small dimple appears in his cheek. I feel my throat constrict, spurring me into taking a nervous sip of my drink.

He takes a long swig from his bottle of lager, and my eyes involuntarily come to rest on his neck. His Adam's apple visibly bobs up and down in his throat, and I force myself to look away before he notices me staring.  
More aware of the heat in the room then ever, I resist the urge to fan myself.

"Well I've gotta go and get ready, we're on next." 

"Um hm." Is all I can manage in response, unable to swallow the thickness that's clogging up my throat.

"Maybe see ya later?" His enquiry sounds more like a statement, and I feel myself nodding dumbly.

With that, he leaves. Slinking off through the side door, and I'm able to breath again. Not even aware that I'd been holding my breath, as it whooshes right out of my lungs. 

Oh my God. What is wrong with me?

 

************

In between sets, there is a brief lull whilst the next band set up their equipment. The crowd has dispersed, a throng of people now stand around the bar, and in the background I can just about make out the sound of the Stone Roses playing on the jukebox.

I stand in the corner, smoking a cigarette and feeling awkward, as if I'm ten years late for the prom. A regular Billy-no-mates.  
A small part of me, the shy, over sensitive part, toys with the idea of leaving. Yes I'm enjoying the live music, and it's a refreshing change to be out of the stuffy flat on a Saturday night, but standing here alone is making me feel silly and slightly uncomfortable. 

All around me people huddle together in groups, laughing and talking animatedly as the affects of their alcoholic beverages take hold. Perhaps if I wasn't stone cold sober I wouldn't care, in fact on the rare occasion I do drink I tend to lose my inhibitions, alcohol gives me false confidence and courage to talk to strangers. I'm one of those drunks who wants to be everybody's friend.

But I can't leave. I've yet to speak to Damon, and I'm curious to see Brett's band. Besides, he did ask if I'd stick around didn't he?  
My mind begins to wander, whirling with possibilities. Wondering if he'd asked out of politeness or whether he genuinely wanted me to stay.  
No. I'm being completely ridiculous. Why should he care whether I'm here or not? After all, we'd barely exchanged more than a few words, and it was Damon who had invited me. Not him.

Then, as if miraculously, Damon appears. Winding his way through the mass of people, he pauses several times in order to converse with them at random until at last he reaches me.  
His smile broadens further, increasing and cocky. Which is when I realise I'm grinning back at him like a star-struck school girl.

"Ah, you came!" He drawls, and before I can respond he inclines his head and plants a kiss on my cheek. 

"Uh, yeah. I said I would." Taken aback by his bold and unexpected move, I feel my face flush and hope he doesn't notice. Or at least maybe suspect it to be due to the heat.

"I'll just get a drink, then we can try and grab a seat."

I nod, and he swaggers over to the bar, a flock of girls immediately descending on him as he places his order.  
Huffing under my breath, I watch him being charming, my irritation increasing as they fawn over him. He laps it up, and once again I'm struck with the thought that I'm painfully out of my depth here. Punching above my weight, hoping that he'd be interested in the likes of me.  
He's a man in his early twenties, with a horde of potential groupies practically throwing themselves at his feet. They're all so confident and gorgeous, painted and shiny, whereas I feel dull, clumsy and shy. And I'm just a girl...

Eventually he gets served, and manages to escape the clutches of his adoring fangirls, enabling us to find a seat at a table that's conveniently close to the stage.  
Thanks to his unfathomable popularity, the group sitting there make room for us, and for the first time we're able to chat semi-properly. Aside from the occasional interruption from one of his many acquaintances or fans, he talks to me and tells me more about himself, and I listen intently. Happy to let him lead the conversation.

His name is Damon Albarn, he hails from Essex, is 23 years old and shares a house in the trendy area of Notting Hill with three, yes THREE, other men. One being his band mate Alex, a fellow musician named Jarvis ("He's from up North too." He informs me) and the mysterious Brett. It isn't exactly the most convenient set up, he tells me, but it's necessary in order to make up the rent. 

I like him, that's a given ~ I mean, who wouldn't?  
He's handsome, charming and funny., and he's in an up and coming band. For me, and no doubt many other girls, he ticks all the boxes. In fact, if I'd have been able to custom order a guy, then Damon would probably have been it. And as he talks I can't help but notice him becoming increasingly more tactile, touching my arm, and at one point he even rests his hand on my knee. 

I hope I'm playing it cool, but to be honest I don't really know how to respond anyway. Like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, I just sit there, smiling inanely and allow him to keep talking and touching, and hope I don't faint. Afraid of even so much as breathing the wrong way, because I don't want to blow this.

About half an hour passes when then the lights on the stage go back on, and the vaguely familiar sound of Brett's watered-down Southern accent booms through the speakers, attracting everyone's attention.  
He asks if everyone's having a good night, a handful of people shout out various responses, and then he announces the name of his band...Suede (incidentally my favourite leather treatment) and then the title of the song they're about to play, but I don't catch what he says because Damon turns to the rest of the table and says, rather loudly and rudely "This should be a good laugh!"

Now, I'm not a complete imbecile. So I can appreciate that men generally tend to insult each other as a form of friendly banter, which is usually taken with good humour. The two men are friends after all, they even share a house. So I'm sure Damon's jibes must be kindly meant, and I take it as nothing more than friendly rivalry. But as the music starts up, and I twist my upper body around in order to see, I hear him tut disapprovingly.  
"Look at him. What does he think he looks like?"

What does he look like indeed. That's a very good question.  
I can literally feel my eyes widening as they take in the sight before me. His shirt ~ or blouse even ~ has been rolled up, and tied in a knot above his belly button (which I absentmindedly notice is an 'innie' not an 'outie') exposing a taut navel.  
As if this isn't enough, he's also undone the buttons, near enough right down to the waist, so his smooth, rather well-defined chest is also clearly visible for all to see. But it doesn't end there, no it isn't just the arrangement of his clothes, and his all too nice to look at body that has me transfixed, it's his movements and overall presence.

As soon as the music begins he's prancing across the stage, hips sashaying in time to the thrashing guitars, his attitude alluring, commanding and....sexy as all hell.  
I stare open mouthed, caught up in inappropriate thoughts. Then stare some more.

The delicious Damon, and the room around me falls out of focus. Forgotten. 

Try as I might I can't bring myself to tear my eyes away from this enigma and his sexualised display, especially his use of the microphone. Yes, just a simple, average microphone has become a tool of seduction. In between his warbling, beautiful vocals, he uses it as a prop, swinging it wide around his head in a controlled, confident motion before grabbing the wire and teasing it between his legs with a flair of sensuality that affects me deeply.  
If anyone else did this, it would most likely be considered ludicrous, but he has the demeanour of some kind of genuine rock God. 

Behind me, Damon huffs and puffs to the point where I can imagine him blowing the entire building down, like the human equivalent of the big bad wolf.  
I hear him pass some derogatory comment, which momentarily gains my attention, and I feel a misplaced twinge of guilt.  
He has bestowed his attention on me, and to some extent I feel like the chosen one. Which means I'm obliged to be a bit more gracious. It's rude of me to ignore him. There are dozens of girls here who would be willing to lose a limb just to change places with me. Yet here I am, sat at his side but gawking at another man.

I force myself to turn around, and Damon resumes talking, but I'm only half listening. Doing that strained, irritated listening one does when you're only half paying attention. 

Each time a song finishes, I join in with the applause and I can sense Damon's irritation rising. Perhaps he's insecure. Which is mind boggling considering his popularity. And even his band went down pretty well with the lager louts hanging around the bar.  
Brett's band in comparison, is gaining a mixed response. Half of the crowd seem to be enthralled by his strange, sensual performance and operatic rock vocals, whilst the other half look suitably appalled. The typical 'laddish' crowd, not appreciating the mixture of dark, melancholy lyrics and the front man's deliverance of them. 

At one point, as another song finishes, from the corner of my eye I see Brett masterfully manipulate the microphone wire so that it swings around and wraps around his entire upper body, entangling him as he bows flamboyantly from the waist. 

Holy shit. Did I say this man was a rock God? Perhaps sex God is a better way of describing him. And I'm hooked. Hooked and caught, ensnared by his raw sexuality and beauty.  
The heady beat of the music, his inimitable voice and eatable body enticing me into a strange dark world of forbidden longing and shaking limbs.

However I'm painfully aware of Damon sitting by me, and I'm slightly worried that he has noticed the way my eyes must be bulging from their sockets, like one of those plastic toys you squeeze in the middle and the eyes pop out.  
It's difficult to describe, but it's like I'm experiencing some sort of strange, sexual awakening. It's unnerving and exciting in equal measures.  
I've felt attraction towards men before, and had plenty of crushes on celebs but this, this is different. 

Brett no-last-name is like no one I've ever seen before, and his performance is like nothing I've ever witnessed on earth.  
I seriously wonder if he wouldn't be more at home on stage in one of those seedy 'peep show' places in Soho. His microphone wire putting me in mind of bondage gear, or a whip when he thrashes it around.  
The way he wiggles his arse like a pro, and then smacks it with the mic in time to the beat, seems to border on obscene. But in a good way.  
If he doesn't make it in the music industry, he could easily make a good living from being a professional panty-wetter. 

He announces the final song, the lights dim on the stage leaving just one single spotlight on him, and as he sings the words "oh, Angel.." that is precisely what he puts me in mind of.  
Some stunning, otherworldly being, as he sings falsetto with his angelic voice, and the light casts a celestial glow around him. 

I realise that I'm actually craning my neck to watch him. Unaware of my own movements, as if he has a magnetic influence over me and I'm unable to resist the pull I feel towards him.

It is then that he looks out into the crowd, and his eyes meet mine. I feel my heart begin to bounce around like a ping pong ball as he holds my gaze, and like the smitten fool that I am, I momentarily fantasise that he's actually singing to me. That he's calling me an angel.  
Which is stupid, right? But hey....a girl can dream.

And then something else happens. It happens so quickly I have no way of seeing it coming, or perhaps I've just been way too distracted.  
Damon leans forward and kisses me.  
Like, full on the lips, without warning, kisses me.  
I let out a small squeal of surprise, as I find myself caught by his soft lips. I already feel like my insides have melted into a gooey mess anyway, so his actions just add to my already erratic heart rate and jangling nerves.  
The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but in my churned up state it feels like forever.  
When he pulls away and registers my somewhat stunned expression, he's grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat, clearly pleased with himself.

I don't know what to do or say. I'm giddy, shocked and confused all at once. I mean, I should be absolutely thrilled that little old me has just been kissed by the likes of him. So why aren't I?  
My eyes do a quick scan of the smoke filled room, searching for any disgruntled fangirls who may be staring daggers at me.  
I don't reproach him, because I do like him, I like him a lot. Okay, so there wasn't exactly any fireworks going off in my head as he locked lips with me, but it was only a brief kiss, which I hadn't anticipated. So I force any doubts I have aside, and smile at him weakly. 

Without knowing why, something instinctively makes my eyes wander back to the stage, and back to Brett.  
He is standing, staring straight at us, eerily silent as the guitarist strums out an impressive riff. His expression unreadable.  
But no sooner have I looked at him, when he turns abruptly away and resumes singing. I swallow hard, the previous tingle I'd felt creeping down my spine when he'd looked at me was now replaced with an almost icy chill. Which is weird considering it's so damn hot in here. 

The song ends, and at the risk of displeasing Damon I clap enthusiastically. Thoroughly impressed by the band's performance, and Brett's vocal talents. 

He thanks the crowd, smiles and waves, then leaves without looking in our direction again.

 

***********

A little while later, I find myself sat at the bar with Damon and his cronies, a group of at least ten of us commandeer one half of it, and quite possibly most, if not all, of the bar stools in the entire establishment.  
Everyone is comfortably drunk. Yes, myself included to some extent, after having downed two shots of God-knows-what, and some alcopop drink (typically teenagerish I know, but...shush)  
After successfully coercing me into having what he calls a 'proper' drink, I'm most definitely feeling a wee bit tipsy.

He's laughing raucously and has casually draped his arm around my shoulder, making me feel like Sandy from the film Greece, and he's Danny and I'm hanging out with the rest of the T.Birds.  
I must be the envy of every woman in the room, as he buys me another bottle of whatever-it-is (it tastes like lemonade mixed with cider) I find myself being swept along by his joviality. His larger than life persona is a force to be reckoned with, and his enthusiasm is contagious. 

Having now met his band mates, Graham, Dave, and Alex (the latter being his house mate) we sit around the bar, the topic of conversation being tonight's gig.

"So Sam, what do you think of us?" Alex asks with a wide grin.  
He's a good looking, tall, skinny guy with floppy dark hair and a megawatt smile. 

"Good, I thought you were really good." I reply honestly, and he beams with satisfaction. 

"Only good?" Damon teases, jabbing me playfully in the ribs.

"Okay, great then." I giggle, and Graham, a slightly fidgety, nervous type who rather puts me in mind of myself, rolls his eyes behind his glasses.

"She has to say that." He jokes, with a wry smile "she's biased."

I blush uncontrollably as the rest chuckle. "No. Not at all."

"What did you think of Suede?" He asks, and luckily before I answer Alex comes to my rescue by cutting in.

"I like Suede."

"Huh. You have to say that because you're biased." Damon pipes up.

"No. Why am I?"

"'Cause you live with Brett."

"So do you, but you don't like them." Alex points out, as he drains the last dregs from his pint glass. "In fact, I'd say you don't like them because you're biased."

I feel Damon tense up and for a moment he looks perceptibly miffed, but then Alex sparks up a cigarette and adds "They're really good."

"I think so too." I add boldly.

"That's good to know."

Everyone looks up, and I swivel on my seat to see Brett himself standing beside me, now in the baggy T.shirt and light denim jeans he was wearing earlier in the day. His hair is wet, and scraped back and as he leans over the bar to grab an ashtray I catch the smell of deodorant mingled with a hint of fresh sweat. It's very manly, and I'm suddenly all too aware of his masculinity.  
In spite of his androgynous look, and elegant demeanour, he's decidedly male. His shoulders are broad, and he stands a couple of inches taller than Damon. Towering over me, and at 5' 6" I'm not exactly short for a woman. In fact I'm approximately 3 inches taller than the national average.

As he unwraps a fresh pack of Benson and Hedges cigarettes I watch his hands without meaning to. They're large, and strong looking. Very capable, I think to myself.

"Great show that mate." Alex is saying now, and Brett proffers him a warm smile.

"Cheers Al. Yours too." 

"Look why don't you two just get a room or something." Damon taunts, smirking behind his pint glass.

Alex chortles and ignores the remark, but Brett takes a long drag on his cigarette, blowing out a plume of smoke before answering curtly. "Why don't you two get a room? Knowing you they'll be no dinner date, you usually forgo the preliminaries...don't you Damon?" 

Whether or not this older man, however old Brett may be, mistakenly assumes that because I'm not technically old enough to legally be in the pub means that I'm stupid, I don't know.  
But I'm not. Not entirely.  
I understand his meaning, and whilst the scathing remark is directed at Damon, it's also implying that I'm a willing participant. That I'm the type of girl who'd be up for skipping a date, and get straight down to it. Well he's wrong, and I'm now bristling with anger. Deeply offended by his flippant comment and presumptuousness.  
My sober self would probably let this slide, but the alcohol makes me brave.

"Er, hang on a minute. I'm not a groupie, thank you."

He looks down at me, his crystal blue eyes piercing and intense. "I never said you was did I?"

"Well no, not exactly, but you implied it."

"I speak as I find, that's all." He says, his voice irritatingly calm.

"Well I'm not that kind of girl." I insist haughtily, without pausing  to think about how much of a boring prude I sound.

"That's a pity."

"Excuse me?" I sputter, heat flooding my face.

Those lovely eyes seem to twinkle and I swear I can see mischief dancing in them as he tries, and fails, to bite back a smile. "Maybe you'll change your mind. Some blokes can be very persuasive."

Anger is too kind a word for what I'm now feeling. Furious is more like it. As the sound of laughter around me fills my ears, I feel like the victim of a bad joke and the sting of humiliation is like being slapped in the face. 

In response, I resort to childish retaliation. "Well even if I did, I won't be persuaded by you."

At the side of me, Damon sniggers and gives me an appreciative squeeze. I glare at Brett, who shrugs nonchalantly and proceeds to order a drink.

"D'ya wanna come back to ours after this?" Damon asks, and I have to bite my tongue.  
It's either that or I bite his head off.  
I can't believe he'd ask such a thing in front of everyone, after what Brett has just said.

"No, thanks." My voice comes out sharper than I intended, and I immediately regret it. I don't want to blow this chance. Convinced that he could so easily find another me. 

But on the other hand, I'm not willing to be labelled a groupie when I'm not. Without meaning to sound frigid, I'm just not the type of girl who puts out on a first, second or even third date.  
As gorgeous as Damon is, I'm not about to lower my standards in order to keep him. If he really is interested in me, then he should understand.

"Aww." He whines sulkily, and makes a face. "No funny business I promise. We can just hang out, have a few more drinks-"

"She's not supposed to drink, remember." Brett suddenly interjects, and I'm so taken aback I don't know how to react. 

I'm actually flabbergasted that he's remembered, and now I'm torn between feeling touched that he might actually be concerned, or angered by his interference. Perhaps he's just using my medical condition as a way of getting one over on Damon. Trying to make him look or feel bad.

"Keep your fuckin' bent nose out of it, alright mate?" Damon snaps, and I flinch slightly at the cruelness of the remark. 

But Brett forces a strained laugh, and looks surprisingly amused. "Sticks and stones, pal....I'm merely making an observation. You might wanna try it some time."

It's all getting a bit too 'West Side Story' and I half expect them to pull out switchblades and start snapping their fingers at each other.

Sensing the rising tension, Alex clumsily attempts to distract the fractious pair. "Boys boys, you're both pretty. C'mon don't fuckin' start. Have a drink, and just chill out, yeah?"

A collected laugh goes up amongst the group, and the atmosphere disperses slightly. The conversation turning to live music, and the Madchester scene.

However it's then that I see the clock behind the bar, and notice the time.  
Oh shit. The ball is most definitely over for Cinders.

It's almost midnight, and I promised my dad I'd be home for 11:30, so I'm already half an hour late.  
It's not very rock 'n roll, and I should be rebellious and stay out partying until dawn, but as tempting as that is I don't want to be responsible for giving my dad a coronary.  
I know how much he frets, and knowing my luck, being as he knows which pub I'm in I wouldn't put it passed him to show up and then I'd die of embarrassment.

Gathering up my leather jacket, I stand and mutter to Damon that I really ought to be going. Feeling decidedly lame as I attempt to explain in hushed tones that it's a miracle my dad allowed me out in the first place by myself in a new city. And yes....especially with my condition.

Gallantly, he offers to walk me home, but I decline, stating that it's only down the road. At this hour of the night on a weekend, this street is never quiet ~ I know only too well.  
One can't live in a flat above a shop on the doorstep of borough market and be ignorant to the continuous flow of shoppers or pub goers, at all hours of the day and night. 

Pacified, Damon nods and asks if I'll meet with him tomorrow evening at Notting Hill Gate tube station.  
After agreeing, I hastily bid everyone goodbye and he walks me out. 

The cool air hits me, but I barely have time to take a breath when his mouth is brushing mine, only this time I respond, kissing him back nervously.  
My arms hang awkwardly by my sides, unsure of where to put my hands. It feels kind of unnatural, but his hands are deeply planted in his pockets, so I'm not willing to make a further move by touching him

After kissing for what feels like an eternity, but in reality is only about a minute, I say goodnight and hurry off down the street. Feeling dizzy with delight, as I I practically float along on cloud number 9. 

In my somewhat dazed, and delirious state I don't notice the soft footsteps behind me, until I'm almost on my doorstep, as I stop to fumble for my keys.

Whirling around, I'm startled to see none other than the distinctive figure of Brett in the dim streetlight.

Sensing my confusion and alarm he approaches slowly, as if I'm a startled cat that might run away at any moment.  
"Don't panic, I just wanted to make sure you got home alright." He explains.

I stare at him blankly as he draws nearer, his handsome face half cast in shadow. 

"I...I live right here." I manage, as though waking from a trance, and indicate towards the building two doors down.

My head is swirling, the combination of fresh air and the affects of the alcohol making me woozy, and I'm struggling to process the idea of him, strutting around out here coat-less on his long legs, just for me. Why? Why would he go to so much trouble?  
Was this another attempt at making Damon look bad for not seeing me to my front door?

"Well, you've been drinking so I thought someone should walk you back." He clarifies, like he's just read my mind. "My sister has a friend who has diabetes, so I know a bit about it. Didn't want you passing out or anything."

"Oh, right." I say for want of something better to say, and then before I can help myself my drunken mouth lets me down. "So you stalked me....hm. Not creepy at all."

His soft bark of laughter washes over me, sounding as adorable as he looks. He seems to actually be slightly embarrassed.  
I've somehow embarrassed the man who earlier owned the stage by doing what some might consider inappropriate things with a mic wire.

"Yeah, I didn't mean to. I kinda just wanted to see you back without..." His words trail off.

"Without me knowing?" I supply, frowning slightly. "Why?"

Raking his long fingers through his still damp hair, he begins to chew on his bottom lip. "I just don't wanna tread on anyone's toes. If you know what I mean?"

"You mean Damon's? Why would he be bothered by you walking me home?"

"Well, for a start you didn't let him walk you home."

"He did offer-"

"Yeah but I'd have insisted." He states, with a slow blink as his eyes hold mine. 

The breath hitches in my throat as I peer into those sparkling blue pools that I could easily drown in.

All at once I feel my knees threatening to buckle, and to my horror I wobble slightly even though I'm not completely drunk or wearing heels.  
His arms immediately extend towards me, and he catches my shoulders in those certain hands. 

I was right. They are strong, and very capable.

"Whoa...easy there." I hear him say. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Thanks." I mutter hurriedly, absolutely mortified. He's holding me at arms length, surveying me closely. 

"Are you sure?" Lowering his head he leans in, and for one breathtaking moment I actually think he's going to kiss me. I even tilt in, the blood thumping loudly in my ears, and then I realise at the very last moment as he releases me from his grasp, that he's just steadying me. 

I mumble "Yep. Absolutely." And quickly move away from him before I make a complete idiot of myself.

He watches me walk towards the door that leads up to my dad's flat, all the while I can feel his eyes on me as I slip the key into the lock. "Well uh, g'night Brett. And um, thanks again." I somehow manage to keep my tone steady, even though my stomach is turning somersaults.

His expression is deadpan, and he nods almost imperceptibly. "G'dnight."

As I close the door behind me I find myself resting my back against it, the rough wood hard against my head. 

Why am I so churned up? I feel like a snow globe that's been shaken up and put back down.

He isn't interested in me. I tell myself. He was just being friendly, and responsible, and...and if anything, he was just concerned for my well being. That's all.  
Why would someone like him be interested in me? Me, the girl who's hair has turned curly in the damp night air. The girl who has to be home before midnight. The girl who isn't quite yet eighteen. The girl who has chunky thighs, and a rounded face...and...and..

I suddenly falter. 

And....why should I care so much what Brett thinks? It's Damon that I like. It is. 

Isn't it?


	3. The Best New Band In Britain

The following morning I'm rudely awakened by the all too familiar sensation of my heart racing, my body tingling and hands trembling. This is what we diabetics commonly refer to as a 'hypo' which is when our blood sugar drops too low.

Forced to leave the comfort of my narrow, but warm, bed, I heave myself up and head for the kitchen. In search of something to eat in order to remedy the problem.

Opening a cupboard, I quickly grab the first thing that comes to hand, which in this instance is an unopened packet of Jammie Dodgers.

I've no sooner sat down at the kitchen table when the door opens and my father; dressed in his well-worn, navy towelling dressing gown, comes trundling in.

"You're up early." He points out rather needlessly.

"I'm going back to bed now." I tell him, between mouthfuls of biscuit. I'm still tired, plus low blood sugar always wipes me out for a couple of hours.

"What's wrong? Are your sugar levels playing up?" He's looking at me all worried as usual, so I quickly reassure him that I've got it in hand and I'm not about to keel over and die at his feet on the lino. 

"Is that because you've been drinking?" 

I don't want to admit to him that it very well might be, for fear that he might not let me out again. His concern is kindly meant, but his overprotectiveness sometimes borders on ridiculous.  
I'm turning eighteen in a couple of weeks, yet he wouldn't hesitate to forbid me from going out again if he thought my health was at risk.

"I am allowed the occasional drink dad, as long as it's just one or two." 

He shakes his head disapprovingly "It's probably best not to drink at all. You don't need alcohol to have a good time."

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I slowly head for the kitchen door. Eager to avoid yet another lecture, and return to the warm nestiness of my duvet. "I know that dad."

"And did you have a good time?" He asks quizzically, no doubt subtly trying to fish for information. Except I see straight through his attempt. My dad isn't over endowed when it comes to subtlety.

I nod, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and I'm unable to keep from smiling. The memory of the previous night, and Damon in particular, suddenly takes the edge off how rubbish I feel as a result of the hypo.  
"Yeah, I really enjoyed it."

"Hmm. Thought as much." 

I freeze, confused by his remark but I've just taken a huge bite from what might be my third or fourth biscuit, so I'm not yet able to ask him what he means. Hurriedly I begin to chew, but he speaks again before I have chance to say anything.

"I saw him, the young fella you was with. He seems keen."

"W-what?" I splutter, almost choking on several crumbs that suddenly fly to the back of my throat.

"Oh yes. I saw you both together. Queer looking chap, but at least he walked you home and didn't try anything on." He continues, unperturbed by my coughing fit.

Gradually the coughing subsides, leaving my eyes watering and my face flushed. I try to open my mouth but my teeth seemed to be glued together by jam. 

"I'm not having him leading you astray though. Keeping you out until gone midnight and buying you booze. He better not have been trying to get you sozzled." My dad ploughs on, seemingly on a roll now.

Finally I rid myself of the offending jam, and hastily begin to set him straight. At first I had feared that he'd somehow seen me with Damon outside the pub, but soon realise he must've been looking out of his bedroom window, and had in fact seen me with Brett.

"No, it wasn't like that. He wasn't buying me drinks. Well actually he bought me one, but it was just coke-"

"He only bought you one drink all night? Sounds tight to me." Dad interrupts, a deep frown forming on his lined brow.

"No he wasn't being tight. We weren't, I mean we're not.." I fumble for the right words to explain. Knowing that if I mention a second man now, it's bound to raise more than just his eyebrow. He's already on medication for high blood pressure. So instead I choose to withhold that information just for now.  
"What I mean is, he's just a guy from one of the bands, and there's nothing going on between us. Honest."

Dad pauses and narrows his eyes skeptically at me. I can practically hear the cogs whirring as he stands there in deep contemplation. His suspicious mind kicking into overdrive.

During his lengthy pause my own sleep-fuddled mind suddenly seems to wake up. Disturbed from its slumber by something my dad has said, and I'm immediately overcome with curiosity and confusion.  
"What did you mean when you said he seemed keen?"

"Well he had the common courtesy to walk you home.." He explains, and then his face seems to colour slightly. Growing a little red around the gills. "And....I saw the way he had hold of you."

"What?" I cry, my voice sounding suddenly shrill. "What do you mean? I lost my balance a bit that's all, he barely touched me!"

"Well from where I was standing he seemed keen to me. He stood there staring after you long enough. I heard you come in but he was still there, looking up at the window. Cheeky sod."

"He, he what?"

"He looked up at the window. Almost as if he was waiting to see you again or something." Dad continues, a clear tone of indignation in his voice. "You obviously made an impression."

Feeling slightly baffled, I choose to dismiss this new information and put it down to dad's paranoia. He must be mistaken. Or even if Brett did look up at the window he was most likely just being nosy. I can't imagine he'd specifically be looking to catch sight of me. 

We're not exactly Romeo and Juliet.

 

**********

Later that evening I leave the flat feeling decidedly rattled.  
As I'd emerged from my room wearing my knee-length denim skirt, with tights of course, coupled with my pride and joy...a David Bowie T.shirt, I was immediately accosted by Jane, who seemed to have been hovering around outside my door.  
After questioning me briefly about where I was going, and who with, et cetera, she proceeded to tell me that my dad had been on the phone to the local hospital and arranged for me to see one of their diabetic consultants tomorrow.

To say I was slightly peeved would be an understatement. Not about the questioning, that was only to be expected, and I was relieved that my dad was still yet to return from work. Otherwise it would have been a full-on interrogation. Jane on the other hand, appeared pleased that I'd actually found somewhere to go. 

Not that I blame her, admittedly since my arrival a little over two weeks ago I'd barely moved out of the flat, and quite possibly no further than three feet away from the sofa. Choosing instead to lounge around in my ratty pyjama pants, snacking on junk food and wallowing in self pity.  
My ex boyfriend Mark, never too far from my thoughts and most days I still cried hot tears of frustration at least once. 

On the odd occasion I had left the building to buy cigarettes, I'd been mostly accompanied by a less-than-thrilled Jane, who had rather unfairly had the role of glorified babysitter thrust upon her. So it was no wonder she wasn't opposed to me venturing out, and if anything had encouraged me to 'go out and meet people' as she put it, before I became a fully fledged hermit, or ate my own weight in chocolate.

But my dad arranging for me to go to the hospital vexed me.  
I had my own diabetic doctor at the local hospital back home, and I wasn't really due a check-up. I'd been looking forward to the break from hospitals, and doctors. They were like vampires in white coats, armed to the teeth with syringes at the ready, wanting to fill vial upon vial with my blood. It was so tedious...

 

After hurrying to the underground I took the Jubilee line to Bond Street, then changed to Central where at last I arrived at Notting Hill Gate station. The journey should've only taken around thirty minutes but the first train was delayed, so by the time I meet Damon I'm slightly flustered and out of breath after having ran up the escalator so as not to keep him waiting. Terrified that he may have thought I wasn't coming.

He's wearing a blue and white Kappa sports jacket, from underneath which peeps a Chelsea football shirt. His fringe is perfectly tousled, and his baby blue eyes seem bluer than ever.  
He smiles at me, places a kiss on my cheek and I melt.  
I had been hoping for another kiss on the lips, eager and hopeful that I must, surely, at some point experience the sensation of the earth moving, or fireworks, or electricity or...or something. Anything.

You read so much about that sort of thing in books, and see it portrayed in the movies but I've yet to come anywhere near to having it happen to me. None of my past boyfriends came close, at the age of sixteen a lot of them were all tongues and teeth, and even Mark, whom I loved to bits, still didn't make me tremble whenever we locked lips. In fact, if anything I'd have to admit he was a bit of a sloppy kisser. Snogging him was always a little bit like being given the kiss of life by a cod fish.

But, with Damon I feel confident that he could be the one. I mean, I'm not allowing my imagination to run wild...I don't expect him to marry me or anything...but he's so gorgeous, how can I not get that magical 'spark' when we kiss?  
If it's going to happen with anyone, it's got to be with him. Once the moment is right, I'm sure I'll feel it. If such a thing exists - I've never been brave enough to ask anyone for fear of being laughed at - then the odds are now in my favour, having somehow managed to catch the interest of a guy like him.

"So your dad let you out then?" He chuckles, as we set off walking towards the nearest bust stop.

"Yeah. I've escaped." I joke, feeling slightly self conscious. I really don't want him to think that I'm just a silly girl. I'll be eighteen soon, so hopefully then my dad will loosen up a bit. 

"So, d'ya want to go for a drink?" He asks suddenly, shattering my thoughts.

"You mean like a coffee?" 

He scrunches his nose in apparent distaste, and before he says a word I can already guess his answer.  
"A coffee? We've got coffee back at the house, no point paying west end prices for a cup of coffee when there's a jar of Nescafé at home."

Okay. So no coffee. That's fine. So presumably he means a drink in the pub, and my guts churn slightly at the thought of consuming alcohol two days in a row.  
Call me a lightweight, but I'm really not used to drinking that often. And my head is absolutely pounding, so the thought of having to sit amongst the racket of a pub right now fills me with dread.

"I've got a bit of a headache." I smile apologetically at him, as if it's somehow my own fault. "Sorry Damon, but I don't think I could stand the noise."

He seems to ponder this for a while before answering, seemingly having made a decision "Okay. Back to mine it is then."

As if by a miracle, the bus comes almost immediately and we're soon crawling through the early evening traffic.  
On route, Damon tells me the exciting news that the band have secured some studio time for next week, and they're hoping to begin recording their second album.  
Politely I ask about Blur's first album - fleetingly wondering whether or not he'll be perplexed that I've never heard it, or even the band themselves - and he proceeds to explain in great detail how he wasn't completely satisfied with their first attempt at making a record, and how he's now hoping to "go in a different direction" this time around, both lyrically and musically.

His in-depth description continues as we get off the bus, and lasts the duration of our five minute walk to his house in Moorhouse road. 

Damon's residence is a very large, traditional stucco fronted terrace, nestled in the Artesian village area of Notting Hill.

Once inside, he leads me into the spacious, yet slightly shabby looking living room, where I'm met by the likeable Alex who is sprawled across a sofa that's adorned with throw blankets.  
He beams at me, mumbles a "Hey Sam." then introduces me to their other housemate, who is at present perched on one of the moth-eaten armchairs in the corner.

Jarvis is, without a doubt, the oddest - and skinniest - looking man I've ever seen. He's dressed rather smartly, in a burgundy coloured velveteen suit jacket, complete with purple shirt and pink tie. On his ludicrously long, gangly legs he's wearing what appears to be mauve corduroy trousers, and beaten-up winkle-picker shoes complete his strikingly eclectic look.

"Hullo Sam." His deep, rather deadpan voice seems to reverberate around the walls of the room, as he grasps my hand and shakes it warmly. "I've heard all about you. It's nice to meet you."

Smiling back at him, I take a seat on one end of the sofa as Alex politely makes room for me. "It's nice to meet you too." 

"Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee?" Jarvis asks, reaching out to take my jacket as I shrug out of it. "I was just about to brew up."

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thanks."

He disappears off into the hall on his stick-thin legs, and I find myself wondering how on earth he manages to walk on them. Without sounding rude, they remind me of stilts.  
However, stick-man frame aside, I've already decided that I like Jarvis a lot. Call me biased but he seems to exude that typical Northern friendliness that I miss so much. His face, though undeniably gaunt, is friendly and open looking. He has the warmest smile, and the twinkliest green eyes that seem to sparkle at me from behind his black framed glasses.

In his absence, Damon plonks himself down on the sofa, sandwiching himself between Alex and myself.  
Now we're away from the scent of exhaust fumes, the closeness of our proximity affords me a whiff of his aftershave. Which I instantly recognise as Calvin Klein's One. I know this scent only too well, because Mark used to wear it. Ugh.

Still, it is a delicious smelling aftershave, so I hastily force all unwanted thoughts of Mark from my mind. Which is relatively easy to do, as I'm distracted by Damon and Alex arguing over the TV remote.  
Alex has been watching MTV, and Damon is adamant about checking the football scores.

I watch in amused silence, giggling to myself as the pair squabble like a pair of fractious, disagreeable little kids until Jarvis reappears and puts an end to their bickering.  
It would seem that this older man - Jarvis is thirty, and therefore the oldest inhabitant of the household - has somehow fallen into the role of a surrogate father or older brother. He's the voice of sense and reason, and I listen with growing amusement as he talks calmly, keeping his voice level as though handling two toddlers throwing a tantrum. And something tells me that he's handled these particular toddlers before.

The disagreement is settled by Damon being told he should check his football scores albeit quickly, so long as he permits Alex to continue watching his most beloved TV channel as soon as he's finished.  
Somewhat sulkily, Alex surrenders the remote to a smug looking Damon, who immediately switches over to catch the sports update.

I at last receive my tea, Jarvis takes his seat, and for the next half an hour we chat amiable about the North.  
Jarvis asks me where I'm from, and delightedly informs me he's a native of Sheffield - which is little more than an hours drive away from my own hometown.  
In between our conversation, Alex chips in at certain points, joining in the friendly debate concerning dialect ("it's a sarnie, not a buttie." And "What even is a 'barmcake'?" Ans so on.)  
All the while Damon, I notice with mild irritation, remains utterly engrossed by match of the day highlights. To the point where I'm convinced that if the three of us all burst into an impromptu rendition of 'Consider yourself' from Oliver, he still wouldn't bat an eyelid.

It is then that we hear the sound of the front door opening, and slamming shut again.  
Jarvis pauses mid-sentence, as right on cue the living room door opens and Brett wafts in, once again clutching a folded newspaper.  
Dressed in dark denim jeans, simple black T.shirt, and matching denim jacket (umm, double denim), he cuts an imposing figure due to his brooding good looks and lofty height.

Incidentally, with both Jarvis and Alex standing at well over six feet tall, Brett hovering at around the six feet mark and Damon coming in at a close 5' 10", amidst this veritable land of giants I rather feel like Gulliver in Brobdingnag.

"Y'all right mate?" Alex asks, immediately picking up on the negative vibes that seem to surround Brett's presence.

Negative is putting it mildly, the man is practically radiating anger. He doesn't look none too happy, and perhaps it's my imagination but when he sees me, his expression seems to darken further.

"Not really." He grumbles, and tosses the newspaper at Alex, where it lands in his lap.

"Cup of tea Brett?" Jarvis swiftly interjects, and he's already up on his feet before Brett even responds. Clearly Jarvis has been brought up in a household where tea is seen as the solution to any problem, or at the very least, an antidote for shock.

"Yeah please Jarv. Is there any Earl Grey left?"

For the first time in perhaps the last forty minutes or so, Damon makes a sound, snorting under his breath "We should have. You're the only one who drinks that poncy stuff."

I watch Brett with growing curiosity, as he slumps into the other armchair which is positioned in front of the huge bay window.  
He's barely even looked at me, which I find inexplicably annoying.  
I don't know what I was expecting exactly, but after the hush hush, ensuring I got home safe incident, I suppose you could say I at least thought he'd have the courtesy to acknowledge my existence. I don't know why his indifference towards me effects me so deeply, but I am lengthily quite seriously pissed off by it.

"Fucking hell!" Alex suddenly blurts out excitedly, and I almost spill what remains of my own tea.  
He's staring wild eyed at the front cover of the newspaper, which I now see is the Melody Maker....again.  
"Damon, have you seen this?" He thrusts the newspaper into Damon's face, ignoring his protests.

"Yes, I've seen it." Damon snaps, batting the paper away "I saw it on Wednesday when it came out."

By now I'm intrigued, and reach for the paper myself. I am admittedly more a fan of the NME, so I'm curious to see what could possibly be causing such a stir. "Can I see?"

Alex passes it to me, and as I gaze down at the front page I'm rendered temporarily stunned by what I see.  
Brett's barely recognisable visage stares back at me from the printed page, his pale handsome face all but covered by his long hair - almost as if he is attempting to hide behind it like a curtain. His band mates surround him, and emblazoned to the left of the image in bold letters screams the headline 'Suede; The Best New Band in Britain'

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" Alex is demanding now of Damon, who shrugs his shoulders in a couldn't-care-less manner.

"I forgot." He replies flatly, which earns him an incredulous look from his bassist, and quite rightly so.  
I myself find it hard to believe that something so monumentally important could've slipped his mind. Whether he likes Suede or not, it's not every day your housemate becomes the cover star of a popular music magazine. And especially whilst simultaneously being dubbed as the best new band in Britain.

Then all at once I'm struck with a sudden realisation, as the familiarity of the photograph and it's headline dawn on me. It has been a slow, and somewhat long descent, but the penny finally drops. "I've seen this before too!" I cry, startling both Damon and Alex. 

"Why didn't you mention it?" Alex asks Brett, who I notice is now sat in the manner of a worried child, with his knees drawn up to his chest.

"Well I wasn't gonna brag about it or anything." He states simply. 

Hastily I find myself speed-reading the article, absorbing as much as I can about the strangely enigmatic Mr 'Brett Lewis Anderson' (to give him his full title) who hails from some place called Haywards Heath in Sussex - I've no idea where that is, geography was never my strong point - whilst simultaneously still trying to come to terms with the fact that I've seen this cover several times since it's publication on Wednesday....adorning the shelves of the local newsagents. But even after having met Brett yesterday, I hadn't joined the dots. 

Well, his face is partially covered by his chocolatey brown hair. So that would explain why I wouldn't have recognised him, I tell myself, feeling more than just a tad silly.

"Is this about the Melody Maker article?" Jarvis enquires upon returning, this time brandishing a steaming mug which he proffers to Brett.

"You knew about it as well?" Alex cries, looking seriously disgruntled now. "Brett, this is huge!"

"Didn't Damon tell you?" Jarvis asks, before nudging one of Brett's knees with his elbow. "Shoes, off!" He commands like a master addressing an unruly dog. 

He must be using the term 'shoes' in the broadest possible sense because it's not how I would described them, as Brett sighs heavily and begrudgingly kicks off a pair of tatty moth-eaten moccasins which have clearly seen better days, tucking his black-socked feet underneath him.

"But this is wonderful." I chirp, retuning my attention to the article. Perhaps I should keep my opinions to myself being as I'm a virtual stranger, but I'm genuinely excited for Brett and his band. "What's the problem?"

Brett takes a sip of his tea, and eyes me steadily above the rim of his cup. There's something about the intrusiveness of his gaze that does strange things to my stomach.  
"The problem is....this means we're going to have to crack on with putting the finishing touches to the album now. And we're gonna have to release the single sooner."

I look back at him blankly, and I see him bristle with agitation because I'm still non the wiser. I can't see why such a minor thing is causing him such great annoyance, and his terse reaction to my questioning is unprecedented and hurtful.  
How am I supposed to know after all? Yet he's looking at me as if I'm a slow-witted child.  


"I don't think I'll be able to record anything unless this clears up." He indicates towards his ear, and his expression grows thunderous when I'm still as equally baffled by his vague explanation.

"Oh, is your ear still giving you grief?" Alex supplies, but before Brett answers Jarvis cuts in.

"Oh that reminds me, your sister rang to say she's coming round to speak to you about that."

Leaning forwards to set the cup down on the floor, Brett rubs his face with his hand "Fuck. I spoke to her this morning, she doesn't need to come over."

"She's just showing her concern. She said you could barely hear her on the phone."

"Which isn't necessarily a bad thing." Brett retorts, and I get the impression he'd rather hold a séance  to contact the malevolent spirit of a psychotic axe murderer than telephone his own sister.

"Well, tough shit mate. She's coming round." Jarvis chortles, to which Alex declares,

"I don't mind. Let her come round. I like Blandine."

I try, but fail to keep from frowning. Blandine? Is that even a name? Really?

"Hold on, I thought you fancied Saskia?" Brett points out to Alex, who's grinning widely now as he shakes his head slowly.

"Nope, I got over Jarvis' sister. Sorry mate, I've always had a bit of a thing for yours."

Saskia? Blandine? Are they making these up? If not then clearly neither sister would ever date Alex. Name shame you see. In a world filled with all these très cool, unusual names, surely plain old Alex would be far too 'normal' for them.

"So, what's wrong with your ear?" I ask Brett, interrupting the topic concerning which sister Alex prefers. But it is Damon, who is being uncharacteristically quiet, that answers.

"He's been moaning about his poxy ear all week, it's driving me mad."

"Yeah well how d'you think I feel? It's been driving me mad since last weekend's gig, I've not been able to hear a bloody thing out of it." Brett growls, shooting Damon a look that could easily curdle milk. "And the pain's getting worse. I feel like someone's hammered a nail into my head."

I fleetingly recall Damon having taunted Brett about his loss of hearing the previous day, and am at last then able to fit all the puzzle pieces together.

"Ah. So you're worried about having to record your music because you can't hear properly." 

"Yes." Brett says rather impatiently. And is that his teeth I can hear grinding? "Wow. Damon's really struck it lucky this time I see, finding himself a girl with brains as well as beauty."  
His tone is heavily laden with sarcasm, and I feel as if I've just been punched in the gut.

I wait for Damon to jump to my defence, to reproach him for his uncalled-for meanness, but my new beau is now engaged in yet another battle for the television remote with Alex.  
So instead I affix Brett with my most withering stare in order to show my rapidly growing dislike of him. 

I'm quietly confident that if looks could kill, then he would now be reduced to a crumbling pillar of salt, yet in spite of this the bastard smirks at me.  
Brazenly, openly smirks at me, and perhaps it is the light in here because I can't quite see properly....but I could swear he just winked at me too! 

No, I must be mistaken. Or even if I'm not, either way I still dislike him now. I mean, the gall of the man. But to my dismay the quickening of my heart rate is suddenly back and I'm desperately trying to ignore it. 

Just then a loud rapping on the front door catches everyones attention. And Brett is up now, kneeling on the arm of the chair, peering out of the window.  
"Shit. It's Blandine. Jarv will you tell her I'm out?" 

"No I certainly won't." Jarvis protests, sounding deeply offended as he stands in order to answer the door "I spoke to her and said I'd tell you she'd be calling. So I'm going to look like a right tit if I say you're not in."

Alex is chuckling now, and rubbing his hands together like a mischievous school boy. Clearly eager to see the object of his desires again.

Groaning, Brett sinks back down onto the chair and buries his face in his hands in apparent despair.

Out in the hallway I hear a female voice conversing with Jarvis, and suddenly I become aware of Damon growing increasingly fidgety, as though uneasy. Willingly he surrenders the remote to Alex, and quickly turns to me. "D'ya wanna go upstairs?" 

"W-what?" I stammer, the suddenness of such an invitation taking me completely by surprise.  
I self consciously cast my eyes in Brett's direction, and unexpectedly catch him peeping out at me through his long fingers. As if he's silently awaiting my response also.

If Damon, for whatever reason, is hoping to make a quick get away before Brett's sister makes her entrance, then he's already too late. As the the door seems to open in animated slow motion and a slim, pretty brunette elegantly glides into the room.  
So graceful are her movements, that if it weren't for the heels of her leather ankle boots clicking across the laminate flooring, one might be inclined to think she were on wheels. 

She's wearing a beautiful knee-length, emerald green dress and a bubblegum-pink cashmere cardigan - an odd combination you'd think, but surprisingly on her it seems to work - her long brown hair is swept back off her face efficiently in a low ponytail, and I can't help but notice what a striking resemblance she bears to her brother. Except her features are smaller, and she's petite in stature. But similarly to him also, she looks effortless cool.

She smiles and greets Alex fondly, much to his delight, but I can't help noticing how she and Damon ignore each other completely.  
For a moment there's a lengthy, rather awkward silence until Damon suddenly stands and mutters something about going to get a drink.  
On his way out of the door he catches Alex's eye, who in turn stands like a reluctant yet obedient puppy, and follows Damon out.

To say I'm feeling a little abandoned right now, is an understatement. In fact, I can't believe I've been deserted like this. Perhaps I ought to leave too, and allow the siblings some privacy. Maybe that's why Damon has so rudely departed, and eyeballed Alex into following suit.  
However just as I'm about to excuse myself and beat a hasty retreat, Brett's voice cuts through my thoughts and immediately gains my full attention.

"Blandine this is...erm.." He falters, and looks genuinely confused. But not nearly as confused as how I am feeling. 

He's forgotten my name. Dear God, I think. I know he's no doubt a very busy man who has lots of rock and roll type things to do, but am I really that insignificant?

"I'm sorry." He says, and looks distinctly awkward "I don't think I know your name."

"Sam." I croak, but desperately try to keep my tone light and breezy so they don't detect the embarrassment I am feeling.

But he somehow manages to see straight through it, and he's looking at me very apologetically. His sad expression almost bordering on pity, and I hate it. I don't want this moody, obnoxious, irritatingly handsome man feeling sorry for me.

"Damon didn't tell me your name."

"It, it's fine." I smile falsely, despite being struck by yet another blow. Damon hasn't even told Brett my name. 

"Oh. You're Damon's new girlfriend are you?" Blandine asks, and she gives me an almost sympathetic look which I duly register.

"No. Um, I mean yes...well...maybe." I really can't provide a definite answer to this question and for reasons unknown to me I find myself not wanting to place too much emphasis on the fact that I might be. For a split second, I even want to say no. But as usual I just gibber like an incompetent fool.

Flustered now, I feel my cheeks begin to burn but Blandine reaches out and takes me gently by the hand.  
"Don't worry, If you are I won't hold it against you." She laughs, and my awkwardness subsides "I'm Blandine, and it's lovely to meet you Sam."

"You too." I go to withdraw my hand when suddenly she catches it again as her eyes are drawn to my medic alert identity bracelet.

"Oh, so you're the young lady who has diabetes." She states cryptically. And whilst I do find it amusing the way in which a woman who only appears to be in her late twenties is addressing me as 'young lady', I'm more intrigued by how she has come to learn of my diabetes.

"Well yes I am diabetic but-"

"I did wonder why Brett rang me up and out of the blue started asking me about Louisa." Blandine clarifies, seeing my look of bewilderment "Louisa is my best friend, she also has diabetes. Brett mentioned you."

My mouth suddenly goes dry, and my stomach seems to do a little flip which I find unnerving and annoying in equal amounts. "He....he did?"

My eyes slide over to Brett, who's usual pale pallor now bears a dusting of pink. He doesn't speak, and refuses to meet my gaze. Choosing instead to stare with avid interest at the slight cracks in the plastered walls, as though they were newly discovered hieroglyphics which give directions to the tomb of a yet-to-be-found Egyptian Pharaoh.

"Oh dear, have I said something I shouldn't have?" Blandine asks and her brother begins to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"No." He clears his throat "When I met Sam yesterday, her condition got me thinking about Lou. That's all."

After getting over the weird sensation I feel due to hearing him speak my name for the first time, I wonder then if Brett shares a history with this Louisa. Or maybe he carries some hidden torch for her, which would explain his blushes.

"Well how are you keeping in general? Is your diabetes well controlled?" Blandine asks keenly, like she's a friend who's known me for years.

Touched by her genuine kindness, I smile at her fondly. "It's fine. In fact I'm having a check up at the hospital tomorrow, so...yep. It's definitely in hand."

"Oh that's good. I know how nasty it can be when things are left unchecked....and speaking of which, brother." She rounds on Brett now, who mutters an inaudible word under his breath which she opts to ignore. "Have you made an appointment yet to get that ear of yours looked at?"

"Gimme' a break B, by the time you get an appointment to see one of our local GP's you're either dead or well again."

"Then go to the hospital."

"No, I'm sure it'll be fine." He argues defiantly.

"You can't hear out of it Brett, you might've burst an eardrum. Which is hardly surprising given the din that band of yours makes, which leads me to my next point....how exactly are you going to make this record of yours when your hearing is impaired, hm?"

"Even so, my dodgy ear doesn't warrant a trip to the A and E. It's not an emergency."

"But it is, you've not been able to hear anything properly in over a week. And it's causing you pain."

"The pain isn't that bad." 

"You said it feels like a nail being hammered into your head." I point out, much to his irritation and my amusement.

"Alright...so it is quite bad." He admits reluctantly. Clearly irked that I'm adding fuel to the proverbial fire."But I'm not going to the hospital."

"But you are going to be recording your single earlier now, right?" I continue boldly "So you do need to have it checked sooner rather than later. You should go."

"See!" Blandine gestures towards me, grateful to have back-up in her argument. "Go to the hospital tomorrow. I'll take you-"

"No thank you. I will go, alright? But you don't have to come with me. I'm not a child." He huffs.

"I know you though, you won't go." She points a finger at him accusingly "You're just saying that to stop me from nagging you."

"I do want you to stop bloody nagging." He mutters between swigs of tea. "But I've said I'll go. What d'you want me to do, write it in blood?"

"Oh wait a minute, I've got it!" Blandine exclaims, and turns to look at me. And I note with alarm, the conspiratorial smile evident on her baby-pink lips "Sam is going to the hospital tomorrow, you could go together."

Brett and I almost spit our tea out at each other in our haste to reject Blandine's suggestion. We both gabble various polite excuses simultaneously, but she carries on unperturbed. 

"Oh come on you two, why not? It's not as if I'm suggesting you go out on a date. You can just keep each other company while you wait. That way you don't have to go alone Sam, and you can make sure that Brett actually goes."

I blink rapidly, unable to comprehend the very thought of me trying to make this fully grown man do anything. 

"But who's to say Sam is going alone?" Brett protests "Isn't your dad going with you Sam?"

"No actually, he'll be busy at the shop all day." I admit reluctantly "But I'm sure my stepmother will take me. She'll have to actually, otherwise I'll never find the place."

"But Brett needs to go and be seen anyway, so it makes more sense him going with you. He can go to the accident and emergency department whilst you're having your check up." Blandine says cheerily.

"But Sam is most likely going to a hospital near where she lives. I can just go to St Mary's which is right around the corner."

Phew. I think. Nice one Brett. Very nicely done.  
But my relief is short lived.

"What does that matter? You can go to any A and E department Brett, it won't kill you to get on a bus or take the tube."

Brett looks over at me helplessly. His look suggesting that he's given it his best shot, and it was now down to me to come up with a valid objection and save the day.

"But I...I don't know what time my appointment is yet." I fumble hurriedly for words. "So we won't be able to arrange anything."

From across the room, Brett nods approvingly.

"Well that's easily sorted." To our mutual dismay Blandine waves her hand dismissively. "Brett give Sam the house number if she doesn't already have it, and take hers so that you can confirm the details over the phone later."

I look back to Brett, but like me he seems to be all out of ideas, so I sit there in silent horror as Blandine clasps her dainty hands together in triumphant glee.  
"There, that's settled then."

Brett and I stare at each other like two children that are being forced into doing something they don't want to do. Blandine has just basically organised our lives for us, but she's so friendly and lovely, and neither of us are able to say no to her.

...Oh shit. How am I going to get out of this one?


	4. Thrown Together

Pushing the sleeve of my light grey jumper up, I check my watch yet again and stare blankly at the fingers without even seeing the time.  
All the while I sense Brett watching me, though I try desperately to ignore him and feign nonchalance in a vain attempt to play it cool.

Damn I wish I hadn't worn a jumper under my leather jacket. Outside there's still a biting chill in the air, and I seem to recall the weather girl last night saying something about a late frost, but here in the cramped confines of the number 40 bus which is absolutely packed - to the point where I'm wondering how on earth we're ever going to get off, and I can just envisage us missing our stop because of not being able to get to the door - it is stiflingly hot. 

The only available seats were right up at the front and initially Brett had seated himself across from me, but as other passengers got on he'd moved, presumably to spare me from being squashed in next to a complete stranger. So now I'm squashed in next to him instead.  
I suppose I ought to be grateful, as I might've been trapped next to the man who appears to be wearing his breakfast down his shirt, and the stench of alcohol which hangs in the air around him makes me feel as if I could easily get drunk off the fumes alone.  
Alternatively I could've also ended up next to the elderly lady with the gravity-defying beehive, who is sat gibbering incoherently to herself under her breath. She smells like an old damp mop when the water hasn't been changed in a long while.

But sitting next to Brett is also proving to be rather problematic.  
Our shoulders are touching, and whenever the bus hits a bump in the road - and there's plenty of them, I can tell you - his leg bumps into mine.  
In stark contrast to Missus Mop and whiskey-breath, he smells utterly divine. His aftershave is like a strange combination of leather, cinnamon and petrol, but with flowery notes as well.  
My keen sense of smell is both a blessing and a curse. I'm like a bloodhound and pick up all kinds of scents without meaning or wanting to.  
I know Brett smelling so good should be a bonus, but that, and the way I can feel the muscles of his lean thigh pressing against me through the thin material of his black trousers, alarmingly makes my nerves jangle.

"Are you alright?" He asks suddenly, and I almost jump in surprise. There's something about being in such close proximity to him that puts me on edge, and I'm convinced he knows it.

"Yeah, fine. Why wouldn't I be?" I manage casually.

"Well, that's about the fifth time you've checked your watch in the last two minutes."

I tense slightly at his words and annoyingly feel heat rising up my neck, winding its way to my face, betraying the awkwardness I feel.  
Well done Brett, I think to myself. You've managed to make me feel even more uncomfortable by pointing out that I've been fidgeting nervously. But I'm not going to let him know that I've been repeatedly looking at my watch just to avoid having to look at him. It's bad enough him looking at me. Why can't he just look across at someone else? Though to be fair I can't say I blame him for not wanting to.

"I didn't realise you were keeping count." I reply sarcastically, forcing myself to look at him now.

He raises an eyebrow at me and looks comically unamused. "Are you worried about being late? Don't be, we've got plenty of time-"

"No I'm not."  
I immediately want to kick myself. I should've just said yes and then it would've been a good excuse.

"Oh..." He looks suitably mystified now. "Is it because you're nervous?"

"W-what?"

"You know, about the appointment?" 

I feel an instant rush of relief, which almost makes me laugh out loud "Oh that? No."

"Well what did you think I meant?" He asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Oh God. Why does he have to be so damn inquisitive? It's difficult enough having his clear blue eyes scrutinising my face, without him questioning my every move.

After his sister - I'm struggling to remember her name despite its unusualness, and keep thinking its something like breadline, and rhymed with bovine!? - Anyway, after she had left last night he'd gone to see her out and never returned, having presumably retreated to his room.  
I'd stayed for a couple more hours of MTV, sport and musician-type chit chat, and when I had eventually left the house a part of me almost expected him to suddenly reappear behind me. Offering to walk me to the underground or something.  
As I'd made my way on foot - choosing to forgo bussing it to the station - I couldn't help glancing repeatedly over my shoulder just in case. But obviously he wasn't there. As usual, I was being ridiculous.

Quite unexpectedly he'd telephoned the flat at around 11:30, just when I'd given up on him calling and retired to bed. I had toyed with the idea of calling him, but for some reason I just couldn't bring myself to do it. As far as I knew, he hadn't told any of the others about our 'date' that wasn't actually a date, so I hadn't mentioned it either. Therefore I didn't want to run the risk of any of the others answering the phone. Damon especially.  
I was just in the middle of brushing my teeth when the phone had eventually rang, so I'd ran from the bathroom with a mouth full of toothpaste, looking like a rabid dog in my eagerness to answer the call before my dad beat me to it.  
The conversation had been brief, with Brett simply asking what time my appointment was, and he actually groaned as I informed him it was at 9:30am.  
Clearly he wasn't a morning person. 

This morning as I'd waited with apprehension outside the front door for him to put in an appearance, I became increasingly agitated when he didn't arrive at 8:30 as we'd agreed. He eventually showed up at 8:50, apologising for 'running late' and his somewhat careless hair, coupled with his repeated yawning suggested to me that perhaps he'd overslept. Although after having already taken a thirty minute journey on the tube, his lateness could've been due to train delays. But I highly doubted it. As we'd walked in silence through the market to Southwark Road, he appeared to still be very much half asleep. At one point I feared he might actually walk into a lamp post or nod off at the bus stop.

"I'm not nervous about anything." I insist now, and make a point of turning to look out of the window to escape the intensity of his gaze, and hope he'll leave it at that.

"Right." He draws the word out, sounding deliberately sceptical. But he says nothing else for the remainder of the journey. Seemingly having taken my less than subtle hint that I don't really want to engage in any further conversation.

Another few minutes of awkward silence pass before he stands and informs me that this is our stop. I quickly begin to follow him as he squeezes passed the other passengers who are standing, but about halfway down the gangway someone stands up right in front of me, blocking my way. Panicking, I try to keep on pushing through but some people are just so ignorant, they refuse to budge and I can't quite bring myself to shove them hard out of the way.  
I try to peer through the solid wall of bodies, but seem to have lost sight of Brett completely - which normally wouldn't be easy to do, given his distinctive stature and style - but he seems to have been swallowed up by the mass of unmoving commuters.

"Brett!" I call out helplessly, before practically begging the two men in front of me to move.  
They begin shuffling aside but I can feel the bus slowing, preparing to stop and at this point I'm convinced I'm going to be left behind.

Then all at once he's above me, having swiftly and effectively shoved the men aside.  
"Sorry, I thought you were behind me. Come on." He urges, and quite unexpectedly reaches out and grabs hold of my hand.

For a split second I falter due to the sudden contact of his large hand grasping mine. It causes a strange tingling throughout my body, which feels a bit like getting goosebumps but on the inside. But he's moving efficiently back along the bus, towing me gently after him, so I don't have time to dwell on the strange sensation.

"'Sorry...'scuse me....cheers.." He repeats like a mantra in a commanding tone, as he forces people to move and let us through. He's clearly well practised at this form of manoeuvring on public transport, whereas I in comparison am a complete novice.

I follow behind him until at last we step onto the pavement, where he lets me go. I feel quite pathetic and more childlike than ever as I babble hastily "Sorry I couldn't get passed, they just wouldn't move and...well, thanks."

"No problem." He shrugs, then begins moving and I rush to fall into step beside him as he takes long, purposeful strides. His hands tucked deep in his pockets, and his head down, focused solely on walking.

As we head along the street towards King's College Hospital we pass by a harassed looking mother, hampered with both an overzealous dog straining on it's lead, and a vivacious toddler attached to her opposite wrist by one of those safety strap things.  
Unable to resist, I nod in the direction of the somewhat frazzled looking woman. "I think I need one of those." 

Brett lifts his head and looks across at them, and then at me. "What, a kids wrist strap? Or a lead?"

"Oh thank you very much." I say huffily and fold my arms as I walk, as if to display my indignation. "So I'm a dog as well as a groupie!"

His mouth kicks up, and his eyes briefly meet mine. "I never said you were either. You're just too touchy Sam, that's your problem."

"I'm the one with the problem? You even had a pop at me last night about being thick!"

"I'm only messin' with you. Haven't you realised that yet?"

It is then that I hear myself speaking without even realising what I'm saying. The words just come tumbling passed my teeth before my mind has time to process them. "No actually. I don't know you well enough, so how can I tell if you're being serious or are just a sarcastic git?" 

"Well I can assure you I'm not."

"Not what, sarcastic or a git?" 

He lets out a soft burst of laughter, which for some reason surprises me. "What do you think Sam?"

"I think....possibly both." I say dryly.

"Well, you may be wrong but for all I know you may be right."

Well that's about as clear as mud. Ugh. Infuriating sod.

"I suppose there's only one way of finding out." He muses, as if thinking aloud to himself. "You'd have to get to know me better, wouldn't you?"

And just like that, I forget how to speak. All brain power lost. How do I respond to that?

Passing by the line of ambulances parked outside the Accident and Emergency entrance, we make our way through the wide, automatic sliding doors. Inside, the waiting area is already full.  
Nearby a man sits pressing what looks like a cold compress to his head, another is pinching a bloody dressing to his nose. Paramedics wheel a woman wearing a neck brace in on a trolley, and amidst the sound of phones ringing and doctors rushing back and forth, a child can be heard wailing.

"I really don't need to be here." Brett mutters as we join the queue at the reception desk. "I could just go with you to your check up and then maybe call back here afterwards if it's not as busy."

"No! This is A and E, it's always going to be busy. You need to be seen, I promised your sister." I remind him.

"Well I won't tell if you won't."

"No. You have to stay and get this sorted."

He groans and rolls his eyes at me. He does that a lot I've noticed. "Shouldn't you be finding the department you need?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"  
For a moment he must think I'm being serious but I let him know I'm joking this time by chancing a small smile, which he matches with a foxy grin of his own in response.

Only once Brett has given the clerk his details and booked in am I satisfied that I can leave him alone without having to worry that he might do a runner. And despite his protests that there's a two hour waiting time to see the triage nurse, I flatly refuse his invitation to accompany me to my appointment.

"But you won't know where you're going." He says, following me to the swing doors which lead out into a main corridor.  
Clearly he must think that if I'm not even capable of getting off a bus by myself then there's no hope of me finding the department I need without him being there to hold my hand. Possibly quite literally. But I'm determined to prove him wrong.

"Neither will you. You've never been to this hospital before either. I'll ask someone. It's not a problem."

Shaking his head, he looks at me unconvinced. "You do have the name of the consultant though, yeah?"

"Yes of course." I reply confidently, as I fish out the crumpled piece of paper my dad gave me, from my jacket pocket.  
But as I unfold it my confidence wavers. "This...this can't be right. It must be a mistake."

"Why, what's it say?" He cranes his neck to see and immediately guffaws when he reads the name my dad has scribbled down...Dr Who.

"Stop it!" I chide, aware that his laughter is attracting the attention of several people. One of which is the ward clerk. She shoots us a disapproving look over the top of her wire-framed spectacles and I'm fleetingly reminded of my old school librarian. "My dad took the name down, he must've misheard or something."

Brett is trying to hold in his laughter but isn't doing a very good job of it "Either that or he's pulling your leg." He cackles. "I'm definitely coming with you now, this is too good to miss."

"Not a chance." I tell him flatly, trying desperately hard not to laugh myself.  
There's no way I'm going to have him giggling childishly at my awkwardness as I ask around the hospital for a 'doctor Who'. It's going to be embarrassing enough as it is.

He makes a face but obediently leaves me to my humiliating task, and we agree to my meeting him back here once I've been seen. Usually my appointments only take a couple of hours from start to finish, so chances are I'll be done before Brett....that is unless Doctor Who needs me to help him save the universe.

 

****************

The diabetic consultant I've been slotted in to see turns out to be a very pleasant oriental gentleman, who shakes my hand vigorously, insists on calling me "Sammy" and is in actual fact named Dr W. Ho. 

An easy enough mistake to make when writing the name down, so I decide to let my dad off for his blunder.  
After having asked several members of nursing staff where I can find Dr Who's clinic, and been met with curious blank looks or chuckles of "I don't think he works here" I resign myself to following the blue signs that hang from the ceilings of the stuffy corridors that reek of disinfectant, until I eventually find one which leads me to the diabetic ward.  
It is in there, that they point out my error and kindly direct me to the diabetic clinic. At least when I finally arrive at the reception desk there I'm able to ask for him by his correct name.

I wait for around thirty minutes before at last I am called in, and go through the usual routine of having my height, weight and blood pressure checked. I never did see the point of the hospital staff checking my height, I mean it's not as if you're likely to shrink, and after the age of seventeen does anyone continue to grow taller? Perhaps I'm wrong and they do, but it all seems rather pointless to me. Sometimes for devilment I wear my hair in a bun on top of my head, just to make the procedure difficult for them. 

Unfortunately the same cannot be said about gaining inches around the waist though, as I notice to my horror as I step onto the scales, that I've gained around 5lbs in weight. Ugh. I thought my jeans were feeling a bit tight these days. Though it's hardly surprising considering all the junk food I've been bingeing on since being at dad's.

After I have blood samples taken, I'm told I need to wait for the results to come back, which can take a couple of hours depending on how quickly they can rush it through at the lab. So I've no alternative but to sit in the waiting room, flipping through old copies of magazines such as 'Home & Garden' and 'The Readers Digest'  
In the background an old radio plays Classic FM, so after forty five minutes of sitting on a hard plastic chair listening to opera whilst reading an article on how to make the perfect hot water pastry, I could quite happily either strangle the singer warbling over the airwaves or myself, just to put an end to my misery.

I hear the door to the stuffy, magnolia painted room swing open for the umpteenth time and don't pay much attention to it until I sense someone drawing closer, so I glance up and almost fall out of my spine-torturing chair.

"Still here then I see." Brett grins down at me, making the small dimple appear in his right cheek. "I thought maybe the Doctor might have whisked you off somewhere in his TARDIS."

"No such luck I'm afraid. It seems he isn't in need of another companion." I smile back, as he sits down on the chair next to mine.

"Well, that's his loss. You can't cure diabetes with a sonic screwdriver anyway." 

"If only." I sigh. "Anyway, what are you doing here? And how did you find me?"

Brett leans back casually and brings his leg up, resting his ankle on his knee. "Easy, I just asked at the main reception where the diabetic clinic was. I was seen quicker than expected. I reckon a couple of people must've got bored and left....or died. Most probably of boredom."

I narrow my eyes at him and he immediately responds to my look of suspicion. "Honest. I've been seen." As if to prove his point he holds up what looks like a prescription, and waves it around like he's presenting a piece of evidence. "See? I'll call at the pharmacy after you're done here."

"I think I'll be a while yet, I've got to wait for my results to come back. You could go to the pharmacy now actually."

"So you're the one trying to get rid of me now." Brett retorts, feigning hurt.

Ah, touché sir!

"Not particularly. I'm just thinking it'll give you something to do rather than being stuck here bored. Especially as it might be hazardous to your health."

"Aw, I didn't realise you cared."

I blush hotly at his joke, floundering for a witty comeback, but thankfully he looks thoughtful for a moment, and I assume he's weighing up whether or not boredom can actually be fatal. Though I'm sure if it were, they'd have been wheeling me out on a stretcher ages ago.

"Do you want to get a coffee?" He asks, surprising me yet again. He seems to be making a habit of that today. "There's a machine out in the corridor. Or we could go to the canteen if you like? Then you can grab somethin' to eat."

To say I am pleasantly stunned by his thoughtfulness is an understatement. But when I think about it I'm forced to admit that he does seem to be quite a considerate guy. Having proved this now on several occasions, from buying me a drink in the pub and remembering I drank coke, to ensuring I got home safely. Oh and not forgetting him coming to my aid on the bus of course. His suggesting I eat in order to avoid my blood sugar dropping low is just something else to add to the rapidly-growing list.

 

We locate the canteen on the first floor, and at length search for what we both consider to be edible food. The choice of hot offerings is limited, and the only sandwiches available contain either meat or fish.  
I've never been a big fan of meat, simply because I just don't particularly care for it all that much. Save for the odd slice of bacon or McDonalds hamburger, I rarely eat it.  
I explain this to Brett after he mistakes my searching for a meat-free alternative as an indication that I'm a vegetarian. 

He himself is, he informs me, and we stand for a while lamenting the limited options and discussing our mutual dislike of meat. Quite forgetting ourselves, we are only prompted into moving after the woman serving barks at us because we're inadvertently holding up the queue.  
Brett then incenses her further by asking for two cheese toasties. She grumbles her discontent, and remarks that the reason we're both so pale is probably due to a lack of meat in our diet.  
Needless to say we both find this highly amusing, especially given the leathery texture of her deep brown skin. If being a sun worshipper means you end up looking like a shrivelled-up walnut, then I'd rather opt to remain pale.

We find a table and settle down to our glorified cheese on toast and cups of tea, though Brett wisely didn't push his luck further by asking for Earl Grey. He might've been at risk of being attacked with cutlery

"So, what's wrong with your ear?" I ask, as I watch him opening a third sachet of sugar. He's in need of the energy perhaps.

"Perforated ear drum. I've been given antibiotics to prevent any infection and some painkillers, but I've just got to wait until it heals itself." He heaves a heavy sigh. "Looks like Blandine was right after all. No surprise there."

Blandine. That's it! Of course.

"Ouch! That sounds nasty. I think it's really nice how much your sister cares about you though."

"Yeah, but she can be a bit overbearing at times. As you know." He gives me a meaningful look, as if to say that us being here now together is a fine example. 

"Tell me about it, my dad drives me mad. He's so overprotective, I'm sure he forgets I'm almost eighteen and not eight anymore."

"But he's your dad, so it's only natural. Especially with your condition." He says knowingly. "When B was your age I'm surprised our dad didn't try making her a chastity belt out of my old meccano."

This renders me utterly helpless with laughter for almost a full minute and he must think I'm an absolute lunatic because I can see he doesn't seem to think his remark was that funny.  
"At least my dad isn't quite as bad as that. But then again, we're not really all that close. My mother raised me on her own."

For a moment he looks a little awkward, as if he doesn't know how to respond. And to be honest I've surprised myself by opening up like this to him. I hardly know him. Yet somehow I'm suddenly finding him surprisingly easy to talk to.

"I was closer to my mum too."  
There's a distinct sadness in his tone as he absentmindedly begins stirring his tea again with the little plastic spoon. Now it's my turn to feel awkward. I want to ask him about it but I wouldn't dare. It's unquestionably personal, and I have to remind myself again that we're not that well acquainted.

We sit quietly for a while whilst we eat, and I'm mindful not to let the melted cheese that's oozing out from between the slices of toasted bread, dribble unattractively down my chin. 

Once we've finished, we drink our tea and I ask Brett about his band. But unlike Damon his answers are short and simple, telling me that they've been playing pubs and clubs since they formed three years ago, and that a reporter from the Melody Maker had turned up to watch them the previous weekend. The following Monday the same reporter had contacted their manager, wanting to do the photoshoot and interview, but Brett had no idea the man intended to run such an attention-grabbing headline or put them on the front page.

As he talks, I find myself growing increasingly excited on his behalf, such overnight success is something that most musicians can only dream of.  
For some reason though Brett doesn't appear anywhere near as enthused as one would expect him to be, and inexplicably he's more keen to ask questions about my life.  
He repeatedly steers the conversation back to me, which is a novel experience and somewhat confusing.  
I've always found that usually people want to talk more about themselves, and have little interest in what I might have to say. So I tend not to talk very much.

But with Brett the questions keep coming, like when's my birthday? Where am I from? Then it escalates to asking what I do back home, so I tell him about my boring part-time sales assistant job in a cheap clothes shop. I even tell him how I can't stand my supervisor and how I'd leave if I didn't need the money to save up for driving lessons.

At first I feel defensive, like I'm being interviewed by a stranger but the more I talk the more natural it feels. He doesn't ignore, interrupt or talk over me, and that actually feels really good. I know he's paying attention, he isn't at all distracted by anything as he goes on to ask me what my interests are, and sounds genuinely interested.  
So I tell him about my secret love of photography and how I plan to study it at college in September. He listens patiently, looking at me closely. Taking everything in.

When the conversation turns back to my father and what he does for a living. I begin to worry about boring him. He does work in the music business after all, so telling him about the small record shop my dad owns in Camden Town,  isn't exactly going to fascinate him. In fact it seems positively lame compared to what Brett does....Mister Rock God of the Year,  
As it turns out, I'm unable to supply any further information on the subject anyway, as I admit somewhat shamefaced, that I've yet to even see the place.

"Why haven't you been over?" Brett asks as he sets his polystyrene cup down on the table. 

Another question. And this is one I don't know how to answer. What am I supposed to say? That I've been too busy being a recluse? That I'm a rubbish daughter but awesome hermit?

I shrug my shoulders. "I haven't really been out much. I should go, I mean I do love music, But I don't share dad's passion for vinyl. He's obsessive about it, it's like he's stuck in some kind of time warp. He won't sell anything other than old school rock, and from what my stepmother tells me, it's really affecting the business."

"Vinyl is cool, but he sounds a bit like my dad. Except with mine it's classical music. That's where Blandine got her name from, he named her after Franz Liszt's daughter...Franz Liszt is his favourite composer."

"Aaah. I had wondered about that to be honest."

"Oh it could've been worse for me, he very nearly named me Horatio because I was born on Nelson's birthday. That would've been bad enough, but wait it gets worse.....B tells me he also toyed with the idea of calling me Wolfgang."

Judging by his expression, I can tell that he isn't joking. In this short time I've spent with him I've come to notice Brett has a very expressive face. And he looks deadly serious, with no hint of playfulness in his voice.

"Oh my God, really? You mean after Mozart?" 

He nods his head, looking quietly impressed that I know the famous composers' first name. "Luckily for me, mum talked him out of it and chose my name. Otherwise my life at school would've been unbearable."

"Hmm, yeah if your name was Horatio but I don't know.....I think Wolfgang kind of suits you." I tease. "Maybe from now on I should call you Wolfie."

He shoots me a warning look, as if to say "don't you bloody dare." as we dispose of our empty cups and begin to make our way back downstairs.

***********

No sooner are we seated back in the waiting room when I'm called in for my results, and I can't resist responding to Brett's sniggering as Doctor Ho once again calls me Sammy.  
"You've got nothing to laugh about, WOLFIE!"

He sticks his tongue out at me, and I laugh. Then just before i close the door behind me, he winks. 

I find it difficult to concentrate as Dr Ho talks, my mind on Brett and his flirtatious winking habit. and I have the unsettling suspicion that if I had my blood pressure checked now it'd be through the roof. 

But the tests I've had give an overall average of what my blood sugars have been running at, so I'm brought back down to earth with a bump when the doctor informs me they're running too much on the high side for his liking.  
I'm not entirely surprised by this news, because despite my occasional 'hypo' I have been eating a lot of chocolate recently and not getting any exercise. 

I'm sent away with my tail between my legs, after being told that I must take better care of myself and watch what I'm eating.

I relay this to Brett once I rejoin him, only because he asks.  
Perhaps this time he feels compelled to, seeing how I leave the room far less jovial than I had entered. Either I am far too easy to read or he's very perceptive.  
But what he asks next as we stroll back along the corridor to the pharmacy, catches me completely off guard. Though I should've known it was just a matter of time before he asked the inevitable.  
"So what actually brought you to London Sammy? Being as you've not been doing anything since you arrived."

I involuntarily stiffen, not even reacting to him calling me Sammy as I realise with a start that up until now, I hadn't actually thought about Mark at all today.  
"I...I just needed some time away for a while."

For once, Brett doesn't press me further on the subject. No doubt having noticed the way I've suddenly clammed up. And I'm grateful for his understanding.  
I don't want to talk about Mark and the way he has cheated on me repeatedly. The humiliation would be more than I could stand.  
Besides, I really don't want to bore Brett further. His life is far more interesting than mine, so what interest is it to him really?  
He has probably only been humouring me with polite conversation. 

Distracted by unwanted thoughts of my ex, and my mundane existence in general, I'm most definitely not prepared for what Brett says when he does speak again.  
"Well, if you're stuck for something to do then you can always give me a shout sometime."

"W-what?" I stutter, feeling a sudden lurch of excitement In my chest.

"It's just a thought that's all. If you wanna get out the flat for a bit. I could show you around, and I don't mean like bloody Buckingham palace or Trafalgar Square...I'm not a tour guide."  
He leans down on the pharmacy counter to sign the prescription and glances up at me from beneath his dark lashes.  
I swallow hard.  
"And unfortunately I'm no Doctor Who either, so I can't promise exciting adventures." He continues. "But if you fancy some company that isn't your stepmother, give me a call."

I pull my attention away from those mesmerising eyes and try to focus on what he is actually proposing. He hasn't made it sound like a date, but I suddenly feel shy as though he is asking me out.  
But he isn't, I tell myself sternly. He wouldn't. He's now practically famous, he has songs to record, and then of course there's Damon to consider. 

Then again, Damon and me aren't officially an item as such. At least I don't think so, regardless of how much I might want us to be. We haven't even arranged to see each other again as yet. He'd simply said he'd ring me as soon as he's free, which I am perfectly okay with. He's going to be busy in the studios recording his new album.

So what do I do in the meantime? Sit around watching mind-numbing daytime TV, getting fatter whilst stewing over my failed relationship with a cheating bastard. 

Or I could take a chance.

"Yes." I say hurriedly, before I have time to rethink everything and change my mind. "That would be nice. Thank you."

"Cool." He smiles at me, and for the first time since we've met it isn't  a grin or smirk. It isn't a smile of mockery or laughter, it's a genuine, heart-stopping smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes. "How about I call you tomorrow to arrange somethin'?"

I smile back coyly, hoping he doesn't notice me blushing now. "Sure. I'll look forward to it."

And whether I should or I shouldn't, I wholeheartedly will.


	5. Hungry Like The Wolf

I wait and I wait but no phone call comes.

Bloody men. They're all the same.  
Even Brett, despite him having shown signs of thoughtfulness yesterday. I should've known that he wouldn't call. 

Perhaps he felt sorry for me and took pity on the poor lonely Northern girl who has nothing else to do all day except sit around in scruffy tracksuit trousers, feeling sorry for herself.  
When he'd said he'd call he might've had every intention of doing so, but he'd probably forgotten, I decide.  
I am the type of girl who is easily forgotten.

Jane has noticed, I suppose it would be hard not to, as I practically jump out of my own skin each time the phone rings. And then I'm torn between making a dash for it or letting her answer instead. Because I don't want to come across as desperate or too eager. I don't want Brett to think I'm waiting for his call.  
Even though I am, but still....

The first call I do answer, I stand like a madwoman, poised ready to grab the receiver from it's cradle but mindful of answering it too quickly.  
When I lift it casually to my mouth I make an effort to sound nonchalant and - God only knows why - sultry....or something.  
I know, I know it's pathetic. Brett already knows what I sound like, we've talked enough by now for him to know the sound and pitch of my voice, but for some unknown reason I still find myself speaking huskily into the phone. Attempting to emulate Bridget Bardot but sounding more like Madge from Neighbours. Or Bonnie Tyler.  
Not sure which is worse.

As it turns out, it's nothing more than a call from the gas board, ringing to arrange the annual visit to check the appliances and so on. And it's probably a good thing it isn't Brett....given that I sound like I desperately need a throat lozenge.

When the next call comes I decide to let Jane answer.  
It turns out to be her sister, and I sit anxiously drumming my fingers against the corduroy arm of the couch, wishing she'd hurry up and get off the line.  
That woman could talk a glass eye to sleep, and after a good forty five minutes has passed I've managed to work myself up into an agitated frenzy. Jane is giving me funny looks, as I fail to hide my irritation. Gritting my teeth and shifting restlessly whilst repeatedly checking my watch.

 

As evening rolls around, I decide to take a bath. A nice relaxing soak with scented candles and plenty of bubbles is just what the doctor ordered. But as I languish there, the skin on my hands turning wrinkly and the water growing chilly, my ears are still trained on the bloody phone. Waiting, hoping to hear the high pitched trilling of it's ring, and then that soft Southern lilt on the other end of the line. 

God. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm like an obsessed girlfriend, except Brett isn't my boyfriend. He isn't even my friend. Not really.

This is crazy.

Just as I walk into the living room, clad in my beloved Miffy the Rabbit dressing gown which has seen better days, and my face a mile long, I suddenly catch the distinct sound of....Brett's voice.  
At first I think I must be going mad. Having spent the last half an hour absentmindedly replaying parts of conversations I'd had with him yesterday over in my head, and anticipating his call, I'm convinced it must be my imagination.  
But as I turn towards the portable television, from which the phantom voice seems to be emanating, haunting me, I almost drop the glass of milk I've just poured for myself.  
,  
He's there. Right there, smiling out at me from the screen. Chewing gum it seems, and dressed in a snug-fitting leather jacket that's zipped halfway up but with - holy shit - nothing underneath it.  
Damn him.  
Such a thing should be laughable, ludicrous even. But no, not only does this enigma somehow manage to pull it off, he also looks unfathomably stunning in the process.  
His chin-length, Galaxy chocolate hair falls down around his face as he dips his head coyly.  
I feel my grip on the glass loosen and it almost slips from my hand like in a scene from a film.

Stunned, I hear an excitable shriek and realise with some embarrassment that it's come from myself. Without thought or hesitation I rush forwards towards the set and my fingers fumble for the volume button. 

"Oh my God! He's on the tele." I say to Jane, who's sitting by watching me with growing curiosity.  
I don't expect her to recognise him, or even know what I'm going on about, but I'm so caught up in the moment I simply can't contain my astonishment. I have to share the excitement I'm feeling with someone. Anyone.  
Even Jane of all people.

"Who is it?" She asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"Brett. His band played at the pub on Saturday. I can't believe he's on the tele! What programme is this?"

Jane leans forward, her eyes focused on Brett pushing the long strands of hair behind his ears as he answers the questions that are being fired at him.  
"I'm not sure. I think it's some local channel on cable. London Live or something like that. So you actually know him? Gosh. How exciting!"

I nod, listening with avid interest as the attractive woman with an unidentifiable foreign accent ploughs on.  
"So how would you describe your music?"

Having heard Brett's wide-ranging singing voice and the accompanying music of his band which has been likened by the Melody Maker to David Bowie and The Smiths, I find myself smiling in agreement as he finally responds, after some deep contemplation.  
"Um...emotional, I think...and intense are two words that I'd use..." He pauses briefly, his denim-blue eyes affixed on the middle distance. "Um...because we don't really play in one particular style. So you have to use broad, sweeping categories like those two words to describe it."

"He's very good looking." Jane pipes up, then asks bluntly "Is he your boyfriend?"

I almost choke on my milk. "W-what? No! We're just sort of friends. That's all."

"But you are seeing someone, aren't you? Your father said he walked you home. And didn't he go to your appointment with you yesterday?"

I feel my face grow hot. I wish she'd just shut up and let me listen to Brett talking. Besides, how can I explain that it was Damon who asked me out, not Brett.  
"It's, it's a bit complicated." I mutter distractedly. "Damon...he's the singer in another band, he was the one who invited me on Saturday. And then he sort of asked me out on Sunday. Brett just walked me home, and he only went with me to the hospital because he was going anyway. It wasn't exactly a date or anything like that."

"Oh. I see." She says, though it's blatantly clear that she doesn't see.  
She doesn't see at all and her next comment confirms this. "So you've got two men competing for your affections."

She's smiling at me devilishly and to say I'm perplexed is putting it mildly.  
Competing for my affections? What century is this woman living in? And she obviously doesn't understand the concept of platonic friendships. Also I'm pretty sure that accompanying a stranger to the hospital under duress isn't widely considered romantic.  
Blood tests, urine samples and burst eardrums aren't exactly the foundations for a budding romance.

"No. It isn't like that. Brett isn't interested in me-"

"Are you sure about that Samantha?" She cuts me off mid-sentence, using my full name for added effect. "Will you be seeing him again?"

I feel my brow furrow, and try to ignore the hot flush that sweeping my cheeks. "Well....he said he'd show me around town, but he hasn't called. And anyway it's Damon that I like, he's the one I'm seeing."

Jane sits back and folds her arms. Tucking her hands into the wide sleeves of her baggy M&S jumper, she shoots me a knowing look. I've just unwittingly given away the reason why I've been hanging around the phone all day and jumping like a scolded cat each time it rings.  
To my relief though, she doesn't pass comment on it.  
"So when are you seeing this Damon?" She asks instead.

I shrug, turning my attention back to the TV. "He's busy recording a new album. He said he'd call whenever he's free."

"And are you actually going out with him then?"

"Well he didn't exactly ask me to go out with him." I reply waspishly.  
I really don't know what to say to her because it isn't like in school when guys run up to you in the playground, give you a dead-leg, then say 'will you be my girlfriend?'  
Which, as lame as that was, did actually make things a lot clearer and simpler.  
"We've just hung out, and stuff." 

"And 'stuff'?" She eyes me questioningly and my face grows hotter still. Giving the game away. "Ah. So you've snogged."

Oh my God.  
I sit there and will the floor to open up and swallow me whole.  
Snogged?! She's somehow managed to make me feel like a fourteen year old that's about to receive 'the talk'.  
I shudder.  
There are some words you should never hear a parental figure say, and snogged is most definitely one of them I decide.

I open my mouth to speak but right then I hear the female interviewer quite unexpectedly asking, "And do you have a girlfriend at the moment?"

Oh Crap. Why would she ask that? How did the conversation take such a drastically personal turn? I must've missed something. 

For a moment Brett hesitates, he seems slightly taken aback by the forwardness of the woman. She's looking at him expectantly, and his silence is making me nervous.  
Does he have a girlfriend? I haven't seen one or heard him mention one, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one tucked away somewhere.  
My guts cramp as I find myself awaiting his response with bated breath.

I really shouldn't care if he's single or has a harem of women. One for each day of the week, and is the third participant in a ménage à trois on the weekends.  
But damn it, now the question has been asked I want to know. I need to know.  
Yet at the same time, I don't think I want to hear the answer. 

"Why?" He replies finally, the hint of a smirk on his nearly perfect pout, puffing out his lower lip as he fires back "What's it to 'ya?" 

I can't tell if he's affronted and hiding it behind banter, attempting to avoid answering, or worse....is he flirting with her?  
A fleeting rush of irrational jealousy causes me to feel momentarily irritated. Then it passes just as quickly as it arrived. He doesn't strike me as the flirtatious type. Damon is the flirt, Brett is far more aloof. Playful sarcasm is more his style.

"I was just wondering because of your androgynous image, do you think girls find it difficult to approach you?" The woman retorts smiling and touching him affectionately on the arm as she speaks.

Brett sniggers and fidgets a little. Awkwardly running a large hand through his hair. Embarrassed? Nah that couldn't be right. Not after that performance on stage the other night. He's like some erotic force of nature. A corrupter of innocence.

And then another thought hits me like a ten ton truck.  
What if he's gay? 

Oh Jesus Brett, please don't be gay. I silently pray.  
Not that I have anything against being gay, I just don't want him to be gay. I don't know why. It shouldn't be any skin off my nose if he is, but it would be such a terrible pity. Such a waste.

A sudden image of Brett slinking around the house in Moorhouse road decked out in a satin smoking jacket, clutching a cigarette holder, à la Noel Coward, flashes before my eyes. He's certainly suave and elegant enough to carry that off.  
Worse still, what if Damon is some kind of awful homophobe, and that's why they're so standoffish with each other?  
Ugh. Stop it. I scold myself inwardly. What is it with me lately? My imagination keeps running amok and I seem to have been hijacked by hormones.

"Yeah maybe." Brett's saying now, and when she persists again asking if he has a girlfriend I find myself wanting to slap the woman. I'm not a violent person by nature, but I could quite happily make an exception for her.  
She seems to be badgering him. What is she doing...hinting? What is she hoping to achieve? Does she think he'll ask her out on a date?

"I might do." He answers vaguely, giving nothing away. I can see the disappointment in the woman's face. Perhaps she was angling after some juicy gossip. Getting the scoop on Rock's new Mister Sex.

 

The interview is drawing to a close when suddenly the telephone, which has been sat atop the Art Deco dresser, taunting me with it's silence , rings. 

Reluctantly I drag myself away from the television in order to answer it, and almost faint with surprise when I realise it's none other than Damon.

Damon the cute Essex heartthrob with the mockney accent. I ought to be jumping for joy, for he has rang me. Little old me. 

"'Ello darlin'." He croons in that self-assured tone of his. "Fancy comin' out tomorrow night?" 

"Oh, Hi Damon."  
I feel slightly miffed that he doesn't ask how I am, there's no small talk or chit-chat. He's very direct, and straight to the point.  
But still, isn't that what adds to his appeal? His confidence is one of his most notable traits.  
"Sure. Sounds cool. Where were you thinking of?"

"That's a surprise." He states ominously, and I can practically hear the grin in his voice.

I don't have the heart to tell him that I'm not overly fond of surprises because nine times out of ten they never turn out to be nice ones. But, I have to admit it is nice of him. He's a busy guy, and yet here he is making time to call me, and wanting to take me out. 

So I agree to meet him tomorrow at 7:00pm by the underground at Crouch End - due to my naive ignorance and his strong Essex twang, I have to ask him to repeat the name of the place. Sceptical at first that an actual area would be named 'Crouch End' - and then we say our goodbyes.

Short and sweet.  
Which is good, I assure myself. After all the emotional turmoil I've been through with Mark, simple is good. It's a refreshing change. And change is what I so desperately need.

 

***************

The following morning I hear my name being called - or rather shrieked, with unabashed excitement - by Jane. 

Her voice wrenches me from a rather distorted dream about Doctor Who, funnily enough. But instead of inhabiting a spaceship shaped like an old police call box, this Doctor traveled around in a big red London bus, and the inside was filled with musical instruments.  
I can't say I recall what the last Doctor Who looked like either, but I'm pretty sure he didn't wear a blouse and leather jacket.

Bizarre. Very bizarre indeed.

I stumble to the phone, and in my sleep befuddled state I fail to recognise the giddiness Jane is exhibiting as she hands me the receiver.  
In hindsight, I should've known something was amiss and prepared myself.

"Mmmf...yeah?" I practically grunt down the line. I'm not awake enough to be polite or even articulate.

There's a moments pause, and then "Is that you Sammy?"  
The speaker sounds suitably unsure, given my muffled and nondescript greeting.

Wait. What? Sammy?

My head snaps up and my stomach performs a gymnastic flip. I am now very much awake, and fully alert as if I'd just been zapped with a cattle prod.  
Perhaps it's the doctor - natch - that is, the one from the hospital. Good old Dr. W. Ho, calling to check up on me or speak to my dad or something. 

"Y-yes?" I confirm shakily, unable to form a sentence yet it would seem.

"How are you doing? Listen, I'm sorry I didn't call yesterday."

Oh shit. 

It isn't Doctor Ho at all, and I ought to have known it.  
This lulling, deep, spellbinding influence of a voice only belongs to one person, and he isn't oriental. Neither does he work in the medical profession. 

I subconsciously grasp the receiver tighter, and manage to find my own voice. "Hey, Brett...I'm good thanks, how are you? It's okay. Honestly there's no need to apologise."

"Not too bad thanks Sammy, but I don't want you to think that I'm bullshitting you or anything, I was mad busy yesterday."

"I know. I saw your interview." I tell him.

"Oh God." He groans "That was dropped on me at the last minute, so I had no time to prepare and I didn't have the foggiest idea what to say. I must've sounded like a right arse, and looked a complete prat."

Oh Brett. Really? If only you knew. I think to myself. You're like a living, breathing personification of coolness.

"No. Don't be daft." I tell him lightheartedly. "You looked fine to me...I mean good. You looked good. That is very, um, natural in front of the camera, so to speak."

He chuckles softly at my babbling "Thanks. Listen, how about you and me do something tonight? I was thinking we could go for a walk down the embankment. It's quite nice down there at night, I think you'd like it. Maybe check out a band in one of the basement bars, and grab some dinner. What d'ya think?"

A light sweat breaks out on the palm of my hand that's gripping the phone, and I try to quell a wave of excitement.  
It sounds absolutely bloody fantastic. And, very date-like indeed. But no, no it isn't intended as such, I'm sure. I don't want it to be, and he wouldn't want it to be.  
Besides he knows that I'm seeing Damon and....oh crap.

"I'm seeing Damon." I blurt the words out unintentionally, and immediately regret it. 

"Oh." Brett responds, sounding somewhat deflated. And I find myself wishing my legs were long enough and flexible enough to give myself a swift kick up the backside. 

"He rang last night and asked if I wanted to meet up." I add hurriedly.

"You'll be going to the pub I presume?"

"I don't know."  
There's an accusatory tone in his voice, but as I stare down at my bare toes which are scrunched in horror, I find myself consumed with disappointment. "Sorry Brett. I would have liked that a lot. It sounds lovely."

"S'alright. Maybe some other time, yeah?"

"Are you free tomorrow night? Perhaps we could go then. Or Thursday?"

"No, sorry. We've got late sessions booked in the studio from tomorrow onwards. Under pressure to get the debut album recorded and released as soon as possible you see." He explains dolefully.

Oh no. He's going to hang up, and then that will be that. He'll be sucked into the heady world of fame and fortune and I'll most likely never hear from him again.  
My guts twist into knots. I'm trying to think of something to say, something to keep him on the line a little bit longer. 

"Actually. Are you busy now?" He asks suddenly, pulling me from my sell-pitying reverie.

"Now?" My voice comes out slightly more high-pitched than I would've liked, but I'm standing here in tatty pyjamas, my untidy mass of hair held into place by one of those torturous plastic claw clips. I look a complete sight. "Well, I um. I was just about to jump in the shower."  
Ugh. Wonderful. I didn't want to admit to him that I'm not dressed yet, so instead he's probably picturing me naked now and gagging into the phone.

"No problem. I could come over to yours for twelve-ish? Will that give you enough time? We can do somethin' else instead. Don't worry about lunch, I'll fix us something."

I blink, looking at my watch. It is 10:46am.  
"Yes, um sure. Sounds good." 

"Cool. I'll see 'ya shortly then Sammy."

 

***************

As it turns out, an hour and a half isn't nearly enough time for me to get ready,  
After trying on several different outfits, complete with matching accessories, only to leave them discarded in a pile on my bed, I finally settle on my turquoise coloured, long, crepe-chiffon dress and black, mod monkey boots.  
It looks bright and sunny outside, and whilst I'm not one for wearing dresses usually, I really like this one. I bought it from the market but have never had the opportunity to wear it before.

I stand for a while, surveying my appearance in the full-length mirror. Not entirely convinced.  
The dress is pretty, unlike me.  
I feel rather weird wearing such a thing, and almost change clothes again until Jane stops me. Talking me into leaving it on, as she surprisingly showers me with compliments.

I scrunch my hair up into a messy bun with strategically loose tendrils falling down around either side of my face.  
I also go to painstaking lengths to apply the kind of makeup that's supposed to look as if you're not actually wearing any. The kind that gives the illusion of being a natural beauty. The kind you apply early each morning before your boyfriend has time to see you bare-faced, until eventually one day they catch you unawares, and vomit with shock.

It is approximately 12:15 when the buzzer on the hallway intercom sounds, and I square my shoulders, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in my tummy as I make my way downstairs. My small, black velvet shoulder bag hanging just below my hip.

"What'cha." Brett greets me casually, with a wide grin as I open the door.  
He's wearing light denim jeans and a loose-fitting white shirt, the sleeves of which are turned up to the elbow. Exposing his slender-yet-sturdy forearms. They also have, I notice, just the right amount of hair on them. Enough to be manly, without looking like he should live up a tree.

He's chewing gum, and his eyes are hidden behind black sunglasses. But as I coyly return his smile, my nervousness grows when his grin fades and he stops chewing.

"Um, hey." I mumble, resisting the urge to fiddle with my bag.

"Hey." He parrots needlessly. "You look..."

I bite my lip, waiting eagerly for him to finish his sentence.

"You look really..." His words trail off again.

"Yes?" I urge, giggling shyly.

He tucks one side of his hair behind his right ear. His silver sleeper earring glinting in the sunlight. "Um, nice. You look really, really nice Sammy." 

A rush of excitement and pride surges through me, but I try to look unfazed. "Thank you."

He cocks his head to one side in a puppy like fashion, and indicates towards the Waitrose carrier bag he's clutching in his left hand. "Have you got a blanket? I was thinking we could have lunch up on the Heath."

"You mean like a picnic?" I ask, smiling goofily now. "I think Jane has one. Just give me a sec, I'll go and grab it."

I almost trip over my damn dress in my haste to ascend the stairs, but luckily he doesn't seem to notice.  
I'm still smiling to myself as I wreck the airing cupboard, rifling through its contents, pulling out various towels, tablecloths and bedding until I find what I'm looking for.

 

Thirty minutes later and we're stepping onto the platform at Hampstead station. Jane's checkered, woollen blanket rolled up safely under my arm.

On the journey Brett has filled me in on the history of Hampstead Heath.  
It is by all accounts a wonderful grassy, hilly public space, with woodland and ponds and a historical mansion known as Kenwood House.  
Parliament Hill, he informs me, affords marvellous panoramic views of the London skyline. As well as it having been used in promo shots for one of The Kinks' album artwork.

We turn left and take the steps up a wide passageway which leads to somewhere called Holly Mount.  
The weather is delightfully warm, and I'm feeling relaxed and good about myself as we walk along companionably.  
Lost in thoughts of how adorably odd Brett is, with his cool demeanour and rock star persona, yet he's a bit of a history geek at heart, like myself And the very idea of him suggesting a picnic lunch is mind boggling. I mean, it isn't exactly rock 'n roll. It's quite twee actually, and romantic. 

I swallow hard at the sudden realisation. It is, undeniably the sort of thing that couples do, isn't it? Go for picnics? Or am I being paranoid and narrow-minded? 

Suddenly Brett speaks, and just then a train rumbles in towards the station, drowning out his voice. But for all the world it sounds - albeit disturbingly - like he says "Nice breasts"

"W-what?' I cry, eyes widening in shock. I must've misheard him. Surely to goodness. "What did you just say?"

He raises an eyebrow above the rim of his sunglasses. "I said, nice dress."

"Oh!" I giggle, with immense relief. "Sorry I thought you said....something else."

He looks quizzically amused, and then his face breaks into a mischievous smirk. "You do know that dress is see-through, don't you?" 

I halt abruptly in my tracks and immediately stare down at the offending item of clothing. "Is it?" I demand. Mortified by having made such a fashion faux pas.  
My mind instantly jumps to Jane, plotting my revenge.  
Why didn't she tell me? Although I'm struggling to see properly in the sunlight, but it doesn't look transparent to me.  
If it had, I most definitely wouldn't have bought it, let alone worn it.

"Only in a certain light." He says reassuringly, except this doesn't reassure me at all.  
"As you're moving, the light kind or shines through the material and...well...." His smirk now becomes a lecherous grin and my shame cranks up another gear. "...I'm not complaining."

He removes his sunglasses in one swift motion and winks at me.  
I blush crimson with embarrassment.  
Holy shit. He may as well have said "Nice breasts" after all, being as I'm bra-less and parading around in a bloody see-through frock.

God I want to die. 

But Brett's wolfish grin has a disturbing effect, heating and burning my insides whilst my stomach performs a triple somersault this time.  
The feminist in me should be outraged, appalled at him for showing such brazen appreciation for my semi-visible form. But I'm ashamed to admit I'm not appalled. Not in the slightest. On the contrary, I feel as if I'm melting into a puddle as he eyes me intently. Looking every bit 'Hungry Like The Wolf' as Duran Duran once sang.

"Behave Wolfie." I retort teasingly, and before I can stop myself I'm playfully nudging him.

He chuckles heartily and we continue walking. "I always behave, just badly sometimes."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Hey, c'mon be fair....at least I did the gentlemanly thing and told you. So at least my honesty counts for something surely?

"Er, a gentleman wouldn't have noticed!" I point out, trying to sound mortally offended. "A gentleman would've had the good grace to not look!"

"Is that right?" His voices thickens somehow, becoming a seductive drawl. "Well, maybe I'm a badly behaved gentleman then....amongst other things."

"You mean there's even more to Brett Anderson from Suede? Other than just being a sarcastic git, and sexy lead singer?"

He bumps me playfully with his hip, making every nerve in my body stand on end. "What can I say? I have hidden depths....or rather, hidden-shallows."

"Hmm. So you're not just a pretty face then." I say teasingly, bumping him right back.  


Oh. My. God.  


Have we just inadvertently flirted? Sort of. Kind of. Maybe. I don't know.  
Forget Duran Duran, this is bad, real bad - more like Michael Jackson territory.

It's going to be an interesting day, that's for sure.


	6. What Are You Not Telling Me?

As we make our way across to parliament hill, I decide exactly what it is I'm going to do.   
What I'm going to do, is this - enjoy myself. 

I'm going to enjoy myself, just go with the flow and forget about the rest. Forget about Mark, about Damon, and forget about my accidental flirting with the cover star of a popular music magazine, and whether or not I should or shouldn't have done it.

We wander around together for a while, searching out the perfect spot until we finally find one beneath a giant, gnarled old oak tree which provides some shade, thus keeping the food and drink cool, and the transparent qualities of my dress to a visible minimum.   
But I'm not going to think about that either, I'm going to force it from my mind.   
Which is probably a good thing, given that I can't exactly tell where Brett is looking, thanks to his sunglasses.

The large tree also also affords some privacy - not that it's needed - but as we settle down onto the blanket, it strikes me that if we were a couple then this would be the ideal place to 'kiss and canoodle' (as my mum would say) without having to worry about prying eyes.  
I have absolutely no idea where this thought comes from, but it disturbs me when my train of thought then goes veering off at a tangent, down an uncharted track and I find myself wondering what it would be like to kiss Brett.

I try hard to think about the beautiful surroundings I find myself in, about the clean, fresh air and the amazing view of London that's visible from where we are.   
But my mind keeps overriding these thoughts, as if I have no control over them at all. Instead they keep returning to Brett's lips and what his kisses would be like.   
Would they be firm and powerful, not wet and weak? Not the kind where you'd have to wipe your mouth afterwards with the back of your hand.

Get a grip Sam. I tell myself firmly. You hardly know Brett and you don't even like him all that much. He's sarcastic and sassy, moody and unusual.   
Yes he's interesting and undeniably attractive in the most abstract sort of way, but he's such an anomaly I still don't know quite what to make of him.   
He isn't what I'd ever envisage as being my 'type'. He's tall and lithe, and has a graceful elegance to him that's almost otherworldly. He's not brawny and strapping like Damon - or even Mark - He doesn't look a typical lads lad. 

His bone structure would make any catwalk model weep hot tears of envy, and you could cut glass with his cheekbones. Then there's those eyes....his eyes are like the windows to his soul. Deep, mysterious, and mournful. As well as betraying a tortured soul, they are intelligent. As though they hold all of the mysteries of the universe within them.   
They're the eyes of a deep thinker, whilst simultaneously being dangerous, I-could-do-things-to-you-and-you'd-thoroughly-enjoy-it eyes.

Oh good God. There I go again. 

 

Kneeling now, he opens the Waitrose carrier bag to reveal a large, still warm baguette, two large packets of Kettle chips and three tupperware containers containing a hummus dip, vegetarian taramasalata, and pasta salad. He's also brought a 2 litre bottle of Diet Coke, but no throwaway cups - he's left them on the kitchen counter, he tells me with marked frustration. Cursing his forgetfulness under his breath.

He's being unnecessarily hard on himself, I tell him. Considering that he's remembered everything else one could possibly require for a simple picnic. Disposable cardboard plates, plastic cutlery and even napkins. Plus, to my utter astonishment, the hummus, pasta and taramasalata are all homemade by his own fair hands.   
Impressive to say the least, he's managed to cobble our veggie feast together on the spur of the moment, pick up a bottle of cola - diet, just for me - and all of this whilst juggling his busy schedule around in order to free up a few hours of his time.

At first I eye the dip and taramasalata dubiously. The pasta salad looks and tastes scrummy but I'm wary of the other offerings, never having heard of, let alone tried, hummus before.   
But I'm pleasantly surprised to find that it's absolutely delicious. 

"How is it even possible to make vegetarian taramasalata?" I ask, lathering another helping onto a piece of baguette. "Isn't it like, Italian fish or something?"

"Greek fish. But it's surprising what you can do with a few minor adjustments." He beams proudly, crunching his way through a handful of crisps. "I alter recipes to suit."

"Well I'm impressed, Brett this is gorgeous. Perhaps you should retire from music and become a chef instead."

"It'd be very early retirement." He sniggers. "And if I end up famous keep it quiet, alright? I don't think cookery is very rock and roll. It'd destroy my reputation."

"You already are famous." I point out between mouthfuls. "Anyway perhaps cookery could be the new rock and roll."

He pulls a face, then takes a long swig from the bottle of Coke before wiping the rim fastidiously with a napkin and handing it to me. "Hmm. Depends on what you'd class as famous...and haven't you heard? Knitting is the new rock and roll. Cookery is the new pottery."

I take the bottle from him gratefully, giggling girlishly at our silliness. "Ah, I thought it was gardening. Anyway, where did you learn to cook? I'll bet you make all the Sunday lunches for everyone don't you? And there's me thinking it would be Jarvis running the house, making sure you all get fed."

"Nah. We'd all starve if it wasn't fo me." Brett jokes, reclining onto his back now, tucking his arms behind his head. "Besides it's Yorkshire pudding and gravy all the way with Jarvis."

"Cheeky sod! That's not all we eat up North you know."

"I know. I have been there before. It's where I learned to cook actually, at Uni." 

My mouth falls open slightly in astonishment. "You never mentioned you went to university up North." 

He shrugs nonchalantly, a crooked smile playing upon his lips. "You never asked."

I tut loudly in mock irritation. "Ha ha. Very amusing."

"It was Manchester actually. I lived in the Owens Park halls of residence until it got unbearably annoying. So I took a gap year and worked as a DJ instead. God I was bloody awful at it."

Following his lead I lay down on my front and prop myself up on my elbows. "Really?" 

"Yeah. It was some dodgy little club called The Cyprus Tavern, and all it involved was playing requests. Sometimes I'd play the stuff I liked, which literally almost got me beaten up on more than one occasion."

I gaze at him in wonderment, enthralled. "Shit. That's seriously scary. Just because you played songs you liked occasionally doesn't make you a terrible DJ though." 

"No, but when I first started there the bouncers told me that at the first sign of any aggro I had to cut the music, so they could sort out any trouble before it escalated." He turns his head sideways to look at me. "But i was so inept that at the end of every song there'd be a gap, and all these bouncers would come piling onto the dance floor ready to break some heads....and I'd be stood at my decks going 'sorry...sorry.' I don't know how I kept the job actually."

We both dissolve into laughter. Him a the hilarity of the memory and me from picturing the scene in my mind's eye.

We chat for a while about music, and I'm pleasantly surprised to learn that we like a lot of the same bands and artists.  
The Rolling Stones, The Sex Pistols, The Smiths, The Ramones, David Bowie, Adam and the Ants, Roxy Music...to name but a few.  
However he's almost beside himself when I flippantly disregard The Beatles and Prince, and he becomes animatedly appalled when I express my appreciation of Madonna and Michael Jackson.

After much laughing, taunting and jibing the conversation rolls back around to college and university.

"What were you studying at Uni?" I ask, intrigued.

"Town and Country planning." 

'Seriously? Why? I can't imagine anyone in the world ever wanting to study something as dull as that. It must've been boring as all hell. Really Brett, what were you thinking?" I sneer.

"Surely hell couldn't be boring. I reckon it'd be quite the opposite actually. But yeah, the course was pretty grim. I never gave it much thought when I enrolled. I just wanted to get away for a while really. You know what I mean?" He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and gives me a deliberate look.

I lower my eyes and stare at the empty space of long, lusciously green grass that lays between us.   
Oh no. I don't want to do this. I don't want to get into why I'm here in London. I don't want to talk about Mark, not now. I'm having a nice time and I don't want to give myself indigestion by thinking about my ex boyfriend. 

"Anyway, it didn't exactly work out as I'd planned. So I transferred to London and changed my course." Brett continues, sensing that I'm not about to get chatty anytime soon. "I never wanted to study Town and Country planning. I'd just hoped to meet girls and have som fun really. You know, that sort of thing."

"Oh I know." I exclaim spikily. His flippant remark and blasé attitude immediately hits a raw nerve, and suddenly I feel quite vexed. "Meet a few girls, play the field, that type of thing? You're a typical bloke. I get it."

His dark brows beetle together in confusion. "No, no you don't. I didn't mean it like that."

"I can guess. Don't tell me....you met someone and she felt more for you than you did for her, because you only wanted a bit of fun. You messed around with other women and left her heartbroken when you'd lost interest."

"No. You're wrong. There was only the one girl and I never broke her heart. it was the other way around actually. She broke mine."

"Oh." I squeak feebly. Feeling incredibly guilty for having judged him. "Oh right. I'm....I'm sorry."

"Don't be. There's no need. It's not your fault she cheated on me with the smarmy bastard." 

I don't know what to say so I lay there quietly in the hopes that he'll continue. But he doesn't.   
Instead he sits up abruptly and takes a long glug from the bottle, and I suspect he's rather wishing it contained alcohol and not just Coke.

"D'ya want some more?" He asks when he finally comes up for air, and proffers the bottle to me again.

"Sure, thanks." I say, not wanting him to suffer further rejection. 

I'm truly gutted that I wrongfully presumed him to be another Mark. I should've known better.

We sit in silence for a few minutes and I ferret around inside my bag, searching for my pack of Silk Cut and a box of matches.   
Brett's interest remains solely on the ground, his eyes cast downwards, staring at the daisies which sway slightly as the breeze picks up.

"Look you can tell me to bugger off if you want to Brett, which I know you would and I wouldn't blame you." I say, hoping to lighten the moment. I offer the pack to him and smile cautiously, hoping he'll see the funny side and smile back. He doesn't.   
"But I am really sorry. I misjudged you, badly."

Slowly he takes a cigarette and mumbles a curt thank you.   
I strike a match, cupping the flame in my hand as I lean forwards to light it for him.   
The scent of his spicy-sweet, petroleum aftershave wafts through the air, and I inhale deeply.   
Whoever this woman was, she must be an absolute moron. 

Thinking it can't get any worse, I carry on. "I've been cheated on too. So it looks like we've both suffered at the hands of a smarmy bastard." 

He's quiet for what seems like ages, and I watch his face gradually darken until his expression is so black I half expect him to throw what remains of the food back into the carrier bag, and storm away.

"You have no idea. God, the irony."

"What do you mean?"

He sighs deeply and takes a long drag on his cigarette before answering. "Just...just be careful Sammy. You seem like a great girl, and I'd hate to see you get messed about. Especially as you've already been hurt once."

I gulp, unsure of how to respond to his ominous warning. "W-why would I get hurt again? Is this about Damon?"   
I tilt my chin upwards slightly in defiance as I speak. Feeling suddenly quite defensive. But not of Damon as such, more for myself. I'm rather miffed to have given him the impression that I need protecting. Or worse still, that I'm gullible or vulnerable and can be easily mislead.  
"What is it with you two? Why do you hate each other so much?"

"Hm. That's a tricky one." He says sardonically. Finally looking up at me, his eyes full of anger. "I don't hate him, he isn't important enough to hate. I just don't trust him. When my ex did the dirty on me with him, I like to think that he actually did me a favour."

I don't dare say anything. So he continues.

"If it hadn't have been so close to home, with the pair of them flaunting their relationship right under my nose, then I might never have realised what she was really like."   
He pauses to reflect on this for a moment. "So you see Sam.." He says, leaning towards me and looking me right in the eyes. "...Now you know why we aren't best buddies."

I nod feebly, this time choosing to return his intense glare.

We sit and smoke in awkward silence. My head feels heavy as if someone has just deposited a shipment of ball bearings inside of it, and they're rattling around, colliding violently with each other. 

Damon. The cute, cheeky, lovable roguish Damon....is the smarmy bastard.  
Oh God. He's a life-ruiner. A heart-breaker. A girlfriend-stealer.  
I don't know what to think, or what to say. 

Poor Brett. Is all I can think, but I don't say it obviously.   
Then there's poor me. I feel like a fool for having been taken in by Damon's likeableness. I've been so blinkered, flattered by his attentions towards me, I hadn't even stopped to consider that he might actually be a bit of a shit.

"Thank you for telling me." I say at last, bravely. "I know it can't be easy for you to talk about it, and-"

"Forget about that." He interrupts, his face visibly softening. "This is about you, not me. I'm just trying to look out for you." 

He clambers to his feet, crushing the cigarette butt beneath the heel of his Doc Marten shoe.

"Well, I appreciate it." 

He offers me his hand and I take it, pleased that he appears to have calmed down. There's the usual spark as our skin comes into contact, adding to my already churned-up state.

"Are you alright?" He asks gently, peering at me closely. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you Sammy. I shouldn't have blurted it out like that."

"I'm fine." I reply breezily. And for one insane moment I find myself believing that as long as I'm with him, I'll always be fine.

This is an alarming notion, and I try not to dwell on it. Choosing instead to swoop down and begin clearing up. 

If he keeps looking at me like this, and being so nice, I fear I might just say or do something which I may later regret.   
Like hug him. I long to reach out and just...touch him. To feel him close and find some comfort in him. 

I'm officially losing it.

 

************

 

The atmosphere has lightened between us, and we spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the vast expanse of the Heath.   
We stop at a pond and feed what remains of the baguette to the ducks, and I almost fall over laughing when Brett edges closer to a large nest that we stumble upon, in order to get a better look at the eggs, only to be chased off by a protective and seriously disgruntled swan.

We walk around the large grounds of Kenwood House, marvelling at the beautifully kept gardens, and Brett impresses me with his knowledge on the 17th Century stately home.   
The architectural style is Georgian and Neoclassical he tells me, and when I ask how he knows so much about architecture he impresses me further by stating that he studied it at University in London. At the internationally renown Bartlett School of Architecture no less. 

"Oh my God Brett! That's amazing. So you're like, a qualified architect. Wow. You're so clever." I gush uncontrollably.

Brett and his double first in Architectural Study and Design, shrug modestly. "Nah. Not really. I just enjoy looking at old buildings that's all."

A conversation ensues regarding my love of the Victorian, Gothic style and how I enjoy taking photographs of such buildings.   
He says I'll absolutely adore Highgate - as it's steeped in controversial history and packed with old Victorian houses.   
He promises to take me there another day, by which time I'm absolutely buzzing with enthusiasm and excitement. 

Admittedly, the fact that I'm going to see him again, and that he actually wants to spend his time with me, has a lot to do with it. 

 

Eventually we head back to the underground. It's gone chilly now and I have no desire to meet Damon wearing a see-through dress, so I decide to go home to change before I head out again.

Once again, Brett insists on travelling back to Southwark with me and walking me to my door rather than taking his own train straight home.  
He promises to call and arrange our Highgate trip, and then with a casual "see 'ya later Sammy." and a wink, he's gone.

 

I barely make it halfway up the stairs before Jane comes bounding down like an over-excitable Labrador.

"Well? How did it go? Where did you go? What did you do? Did you have a nice time?" 

She fires the questions at me before pausing to let me answer, and I choose to comply and appease her curiosity by telling her everything she wants to know.  
I can't help noticing that as I talk, she beams at me like some woman who's advertising toothpaste, and when I finish her eyes gloss over and she sighs theatrically.  
"Aaah. How romantic. It sounds glorious."

"It wasn't romantic." I insist, bursting her bubble somewhat. "We just talked, and had a laugh. Like friends. We're just friends."

"Mmm hmm. But you're positively glowing Sam."

"Glowing? Isn't that what you're supposed to say to women when they're pregnant?" 

"Oh shush. You are, you look radiant and so...so happy."

Happy. That's something I haven't felt in quite a while. But she's right, I can't deny that I do feel happy.. Even in spite of the Damon bombshell, I feel inexplicably happy.  
But me being me, I respond with sarcasm.

"If I am glowing, it's probably with anger or embarrassment. This dress is see-through in the sunlight, did you know that? I've never felt so embarrassed!"

Jane pretends to look shocked but her attempt doesn't fool me. "Is it? Well it is very flimsy material Sam....and anyway, it doesn't do any harm to flaunt your sexuality from time to time. You're only young once."

I huff indignantly as I head towards my room. "I don't want to look like a tart thank you. And anyway, like I said, Brett and me, it....it isn't like that."

"Yes yes, you've said. Damian asked you out first, but if you like this Brett then-"

"Hey, hold on I never said I liked Brett....and it's Damon, not Damian."

She waves her hand at me dismissively, as if batting a pesky fly away. "You don't have to say it. It's written all over your face. Honestly Sam, just be honest with yourself, you like him don't you? Don't you?"

Horrified now I try to keep my expression deadpan. Wondering what on earth has led her to believe that I have a thing for Brett.  
I don't. I really don't. I can't.

"I do like him, but not like that." I explain. "Yes he's nice, and completely different to anyone I've ever met. He's so clever and interesting, and funny....but he's a lot older than me. He's twenty four."

"So? Isn't Damon the same age?"

I hesitate in my doorway. "He's a year younger. But Damon is different. He's more....he's more like the boys I'm used to. He likes football and playing darts down the pub."

"You find Brett intimidating? Because he's different, you feel inferior or overwhelmed? You shouldn't be. Sam you're a lovely young woman, you shouldn't sell yourself short. You just don't have enough confidence in yourself."

I stand for a moment, mulling over what my stepmother - the woman who hardly knows me - has just said.   
Perhaps she does have a point. I do lack confidence and I have very little self esteem.   
But this doesn't have anything to do with me liking Brett.   
It's true, I would feel slightly nervous dating someone like him. I would probably feel like an incompetent idiot most of the time, I'm not graceful, elegant or particularly intelligent. I'm clumsy, and dopey and most definitely nothing special. 

Someone like Brett, needs an articulate, sophisticated rock chick on his arm. A graduate from Cambridge with that natural shade of hair which looks almost black, but is in fact dark brown.   
Someone foreign perhaps, like the woman who interviewed him on TV.   
She'd need a sultry, husky accent and brown eyes. Legs like a racehorse and breasts that start just below her chin.   
They'd sit smoking French cigarettes together and discussing Baroque.

In comparison, my own legs....well frankly I've seen better legs on a table, and my C-cup breasts aren't so noticeable given that I don't have a 20 inch waist.   
My hair is dirty blonde and looks gingery in the sunlight, and when it comes to intellect, I'm the girl who mistakenly thought a ramekin was a Jewish holiday, and that Carpe diem was a breed of fish.  
So no. I'm all wrong for Brett. He's a well educated rockstar, and I'm just a girl. 

"I don't think Brett is interested in me, not in that way." I say finally. "He's sort of befriended me because I've got no one else to spend my time with. That's all."

Jane shoots me a sceptical look, and smirks as if she knows something I don't. "That man has been on the tele and in magazines. He's in a band and has records to record, but he still finds the time to call you up and take you out."

I shrug and try to quell the sudden swirl of excitement in my gut.   
Jane knows nothing. I can't listen to her. If I start to believe that she's right in implying that Brett might actually fancy me or something - as if - then I'd be reduced to a gibbering wreck. I'd probably develop a permanent nervous stutter just from trying to speak to him.

"He doesn't like me that way. He's just being friendly, there's nothing more to it than that."

"He takes you out, he walks you home, he made up a picnic for Christ's sake. That's more than what this Damon has done, from what you've told me he just expects you to spend your time at the pub. He wouldn't even take you for a coffee."

I open my mouth to say something - I'm not sure what just yet - when an unsettling thought suddenly comes crashing into my mind like a wrecking ball. 

Thanks to Jane drawing comparisons between the two men, and what Brett revealed today about his ex girlfriend and Damon, a terrible panic grips me as doubt and suspicion begin to take hold. Choking all the joy and innocence out of the wonderful time I've had this afternoon.

What if.....what if Brett is befriending me just to get back at Damon? 

It sounds ludicrous but, but it is a possibility.   
There's no love lost between the pair, and quite frankly I'm amazed that Brett has been able to get over the betrayal and go on sharing that house with the man who stole his girlfriend from him.

So what if he isn't over it, and now I've come along and Damon has shown an interest in me, what if Brett is using the opportunity to get revenge? 

An icy chill creeps down my spine and I feel suddenly nauseated.   
Am I nothing more than a pawn in a game? 

I sincerely hope not.

Hastily I excuse myself, telling Jane that I need the loo.   
I dart into the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The blotchy faced girl looks back at me through bleary eyes until my face becomes distorted with the tears.

I don't know why I can't seem to stop myself crying. I'm being pathetic.   
Even if Brett is using me as part of some twisted plot to get back at Damon then so what? At least I'm aware of it now, so I can put a stop to it. 

My mind swirls, as I try to reassess the situation and devise a plan.   
I need to find out, I need to know for sure. No matter how painful the truth may be.  
But how? How am I going to get to the bottom of it all?  
I could just ask Damon, but how do I even begin that conversation? For a start, he'll wonder how the hell I know about him and Brett's ex.

Oh God.

Then I'll have to tell him that I've been spending time with Brett, which is another issue in itself.   
I should've just been open about it from the start, after Blind eye - ugh - Blandine railroaded us into going to the hospital together. 

But now I've met up with him again, which will look even worse. As if there is something dodgy going on.  
Our secret friendship set-up is shady to say the least, we've never even discussed letting any of the others know that we've met up. 

Is that what Brett wanted? To coerce me into spending time with him on the quiet just so it'll look suspicious and questionable when it comes out?   
Or perhaps he is just working on me, and planning to hit on me...

This thought makes the breath hitch in my throat - and I'm disgusted at myself when I feel a slight thrill at the very thought of Brett trying it on....making a move on me with those pouty lips. Those strong hands.

Aaagh!

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the inappropriate thoughts. They have no business being there. He has no business being in my mind. He's moved in uninvited and has been walking around in his size 10 shoes, rent free.   
Well no, it's time for eviction.  
Even if he isn't shifty, and isn't trying to get one over on Damon by spending time with me, this needs to stop.  
Brett is not the man for me, he never could be and he never will be.

I need a nice, regular, easy guy. One who isn't so mature, so intellectual, and doesn't ooze sex.   
Someone who's safe. Yes. A safe option.   
Brett is....dangerous territory. I'd be so out of my depth. In every sense of the word.

Unwanted images of him strutting his stuff on stage flash before my eyes, and suddenly I can imagine him being some sort of Kama sutra expert. A master of tantric sex, bending himself into every position possible, whilst simultaneously proving that heaven really does exist, as he takes you there...again and again.

A hot flush surges through me, heating my face as well as my groin.   
Oh fucking hell.   
What is happening to me? Since when did I become such a pervert?   
And this is Brett, I shouldn't be thinking about him and sex. It's so wrong. 

I turn on the tap and splash my burning face with water, and contemplate taking a cold shower. Or perhaps an ice water bath, complete with ice bergs and penguins.

 

No, I need to be practical for once. I'm going to have to sort this mess out. And the best place to start, I decide, is at the beginning. I need to find out exactly what went on between Damon and Brett's cheating girlfriend. 

I need to ask someone, someone who will know. Someone who is impartial but knows them both and wouldn't take sides...

Alex. 

A lightbulb comes on in my head, as I have a eureka moment. 

I will ask Alex.


	7. Cigarettes and Alcohol

My mood hadn't improved by the time I reach Crouch End, in fact it has darkened so much that I feel like one of those cartoon characters that acquires their own personal little thundercloud which follows them around everywhere, raining bolts of lightning down onto the top of their head.

Already feeling rattled by unwanted thoughts of Brett possibly wanting to use me as a metaphorical club to bash Damon over the head with, Jane unwittingly added to my irritation when she informed me that there is in fact no underground station at Crouch End.  
What there is, is an old abandoned train station which hasn't been used since the 50's.

Oh joy.

A quick telephone call to the Damon/Brett/Alex/Jarvis residence proved to be fruitless, as there was evidently no one home. 

Deep joy.

"So just how do I get to Crouch End now?" I grumble, stomping around the flat childishly, my agitation increasing with every step.

Jane pulled a face and looked equally stumped, telling me unhelpfully that she has no idea what buses I'd need to catch. And more to the point - she wanted to know - did that mean Damon intended to meet me at the abandoned station? If so, why?  
It doesn't make any bloody sense.

Another hurried phone call later, this time to a local taxi service, and I at least manage to secure my mode of transport.  
A black cab arrived in record time, and with much "ooh-ing and ahh-ing" over having seen me dressed femininely for the second time that day, Jane followed me down the stairs to the front door.

"You look very pretty Sam, so girly....shame about the footwear but still, it's so nice seeing you wear something other than jeans for a change."

"I'm not wearing heels, my docs are comfy......and I don't just wear jeans, I wore a skirt the other night as well."

"It was still denim, which may as well be jeans as far as I'm concerned." She argues, then quite unexpectedly pulled me into a strained hug. "Now listen, if it ends up being a late one and you're invited to stay at his place.....it's entirely up to you."

"But what about dad?" I ask incredulously. returning the awkward embrace. "He'd totally freak out."

"You leave your father to me." She taps the side of her nose conspiratorially with a turquoise-nailed finger. "You just be safe and have fun. You're only young once."

"I know, I know."

 

As the cab pulls up outside of the old Crouch End station, I see Damon waiting for me patiently, grinning like a man who isn't completely in possession of all his wits.  
He looks so bubbly. Bubbly to the point of being effervescent, rocking back on his heels at the side of the kerb.  
I pay the driver a small fortune and clamber from the vehicle, swinging my legs out in as ladylike a way as possible, but I'm stiff after having spent the half hour journey trying to sit primly whilst being bounced around on the back seat.

Due to not knowing where I'd be going tonight, I made a conscious effort just in case the surprise turned out to be dinner somewhere fancy.  
I keep secretly hoping that Damon will prove Brett wrong by taking me on a 'proper' date.  
However my hopes of a nice, romantic evening are fading fast as I find myself at the disused train station.  
Perhaps Damon is a firm believer in the supernatural and an avid ghost-hunter, I ponder. So skulking around old dilapidated buildings could be his idea of a fun time.

Well it certainly isn't mine.  
Not when he'd led me to believe that this was a regular station with tracks, and trains and all that. Not when I had to book a cab at the last minute. Not when I'm wearing my most favourite outfit.  
It consists of a black chiffon blouse that has a gorgeous floral print, the bright red flowers which bloom across the soft material give it an oriental-style look, and a slightly flared, black skirt - the hem of which hangs way above my knee, so I've coupled it with my usual black tights because my legs are blindingly white. Like honest to goodness milk-bottle white, so I look like I've been drinking the pale-ale.  
Similar to Brett, due to my porcelain skin tone I'm one of those people who often get asked if I'm ill and then forced to admit that no, it's just my face.  
Thank God - albeit Rimmel, the God of Cosmetics - for foundation, blusher and tinted moisturiser.  
My hair is still in the messy up 'do, held in place on top of my head with pins and clips, but I've swapped my mod boots for Doc Marten shoes - the pair without the trademark yellow stitching.

Damon bounces over like Tigger but I greet him sourly, like Eeyore the manic-depressive donkey.  
He doesn't seem to notice though, as he plants a big kiss squarely on my lips.

"How ya doin' darlin'?" He beams at me, displaying his slightly crooked teeth which I find so undeniably cute.

Damn I wish he wasn't so gorgeous. Then I'd be able to be properly mad at him.  
He's wearing a green and blue striped Fred Perry polo shirt, the colour of which accentuates his tanned arms. I had previously asked him if he'd been abroad recently, but his response was he'd merely caught the sun sitting in the beer garden at his local.

"I didn't realise this station was closed." I tell him, making a gigantic effort to keep my voice pleasant.  
He hasn't as yet even commented on my outfit.

"Did you not?" He asks, placing an arm lazily around my shoulder and begins steering me along the pavement, and I let him move me around like a mannequin. "Oh yeah. I keep forgetting you're not from round here."

Zoom, goes my temper. Zoom and whoosh.

"Well it would be nice if maybe you could try and remember, for future reference." I say in the same even tone.

He nods and mumbles an apology, seemingly having finally registered that I'm actually quite pissed off.

We fall into step and he takes my hand in his as we make our way through the leafy, North London streets up to Crouch Hill.  
It's quite a good stretch of the legs and I'm silently thankful for having not heeded Jane's fashion advice about wearing heels.  
The walk is nice though, and I start to relax a bit more as Damon bemoans the trials and tribulations he's been encountering whilst working on his latest album with a new producer.

I listen and nod sympathetically when I think it's called for, but I don't understand half of what he's saying. Unfortunately I only listen to music, I'm completely ignorant as to what it entails to 'produce' a record in a studio.  
I'm sure it's all very fascinating stuff, but my mind keeps wandering to the way his hand is clasping mine, and involuntarily find myself remembering the way Brett had held my hand the other day.  
I really ought not to draw comparisons between the two, but I can't help noticing the lack of 'spark' between our skin-on-skin contact. When Brett held my hand it felt a bit like a static shock, but not as unpleasant.

I mull over this for a while, theorising that it's probably due to the strange, giddy anxiety Brett manages to evoke in me. Convincing myself that it's nothing more than just nerves, but then Damon's voice pulls my focus back and I realise I have zoned out, which then makes me feel bad.

 

We reach our destination, and any lingering traces of irritability rapidly begin to dwindle.

The Church was once an actual church (no surprise there, the clue is in the name) but is now a recording studio. The studio where Damon and the gang are now working on their new album...and it is absolutely glorious.  
He's brought me here to show me "where the magic happens" and I gaze around the stunning interior in awe, my head on a swivel. Though admittedly he's more excited about showing me the sound booths and recording equipment, whereas I'm mesmerised by the grandeur of the room where religious services once took place.

Damon sees me marvelling at the towering ceiling, and remarks on how it provides brilliant acoustics. He then goes on to rave about the rare recording and mixing desks, and a vintage 72 channel EMI Neve console.  
"Incredible piece of kit." He informs me, grinning from ear to ear.

I nod dumbly and try to look just as enamoured as he does, and I'm forced to admit that his excitable enthusiasm is adorable, but I'm still more enthralled with the huge church windows and original oak beams than any recording gear.

"Dave Stewart owns this place. You know Dave Stewart? From the Eurythmics?"

"Wow. Really? No I didn't know that. That's....that's....cool." I gibber somewhat distractedly, not wanting to burst his bubble by admitting that I only know a bit about the Eurythmics and that's only because of the vocalist is Annie Lennox. The name Dave Stewart means nothing to me. He could've been the bloke who cleans the toilets here for all I knew.  
"How old is this place? It looks Victorian."

Damon shrugs, evidently no clue or interest as to the period of the structure. "I dunno. Old."  
He heads back towards the door, which I take as an indication that it's time we left.  
It was only intended to be a 'quick sneak peek." after the bands' session, and the rest of the guys he informs me, have gone ahead for a few bevvies at a local pub.

And yes, we're going to join them.

Bloody hell Brett. I think to myself. Why must you always be right?  
I so desperately wanted Damon to prove him wrong, to not be this predictable. 

But no such luck.

 

******************

 

The Kings Head, is a typically traditional English pub with booths and heavy wooden tables and chairs. The large, U-shaped room is packed with clusters of friends dressed casually in jumpers and jeans. A circle of suit-wearing office workers, having presumably stopped by for drinks en route home, hang around the long bar in the centre of the room.  
The thick carpet is adorned with a migraine-inducing pattern and dotted with grubby, unidentifiable stains, which I hope is just beer. Several fruit machines and a jukebox provide background noise of much whirring and jingles jingling, followed by the occasional sound of money dropping. Merging with the Happy Mondays, and loud male talk, with the occasional blast of female laughter, the whole room is abuzz with much joviality, and our group in particular seem to be the loudest patrons.

 

Huddled around one table is the painfully shy Graham, who sits next to Dave the drummer, and across from Damon and myself.  
At the table next to ours, is Alex and his girlfriend.  
Yes, it would seem that in spite of having crushes on his housemates sister's, the sweet, slightly foppish Alex, already has a girlfriend.  
Her name is Jem - which I wrongly presumed to be short for Jemma, when it's actually Jemima.  
She works in advertising, and is an attractive, willowy, upper-class girl with black curly hair which frames her almond-shaped face.  
I notice she has really good skin too, a healthy complexion with cherry-red cheeks, pink-tipped nose, and large bambi eyes.

They make a cute couple, I think with a smile, Alex in his v-neck cashmere sweater, and her in a soft flannel skirt-suit, which has fur trim at the collar and cuffs.

She's been very friendly, and it's nice not being the only girl in the group, but I can't help feeling slightly deflated, knowing that I'm not going to be able to get Alex alone to question him about Brett's ex. Not without looking a bit suss. 

This seems like a terrible pity, as the copious amounts of alcohol Alex has consumed seemed to have loosened his tongue, and there's a distinct air of uneasiness gathering like a storm every time Damon disappears off to the bar or gents. 

"You really ought to take it easy darling." Jem advises, eyeballing Alex with the look of a disapproving girlfriend who knows how this is going to end. 

"Aw, come on love. Surely you don't begrudge me a few beers after the day I've had." Alex whines melodramatically, "I've had a gut-full of listening to the Kinks on repeat, and Damon arguing with Andy, and...and I swear if he mentions the bloody Eurythmics one more time I'll swing for him."

At this, Dave begins to chuckle but nods in apparent agreement. "Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello have recorded in that studio, but all Damon keeps going on about is the Eurythmics. Just because Dave Stewart owns the place." 

Graham fidgets nervously with a beer mat, his body language bordering on super-twitchy.  
It's evident that Dave is feeling the strain of recording the new album too, and shares in Alex' exasperation, whilst Graham on the other hand, his loyalties firmly lie with Damon.

"Andy's the new producer, right?" I ask rhetorically, recalling Damon mentioning him earlier during a rant of his own.  
I'm hoping to temporarily distract the band members from their current discontent, but unfortunately I only seem to add to the growing animosity.

"Yeah, Andy Partridge. He's a good producer." Alex taps his index finger on the table rather forcefully, as if to emphasise his point. "But surprise bloody surprise, Damon doesn't like him. Just because he doesn't 'get' the sound we're supposedly going for."

"Well he doesn't!" Graham pipes up bravely, in an attempt to fight Damon's corner in his absence. His loyalty is both touching and admirable. As friends go, I can see Graham is a good one, and I only hope Damon appreciates his camaraderie. 

"But there is no sound, that's the problem!" Alex cries, rather anguished now. "That media backlash after the last album was deserved. Damon can't decide on a musical identity for us, and this album will be a bloody disaster if he doesn't take Andy's advice. He's the professional, he knows what he's doing."

"What media backlash?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Basically the newspapers accused us of bandwagon-jumping." Dave explains, bristling at the memory. "And they outed Damon as a trend-hopper. You know, someone who changes their music and image just to fit in with whatever style is most popular at the time."

"Oh." I respond feebly, just as Damon returns from the toilets even more animated than usual, and the rest of the band fall deathly silent. 

But in true Damon style, he doesn't seem to notice.

 

******************

 

As the night wears on and the drinks continue to flow, I finally relent and start downing Archers and lemonade. A very 'grown-up' beverage I think to myself drunkenly.  
I haven't eaten, as I had wanted to leave room for the dinner I thought I might've been getting, but in actual fact didn't, so the peach schnapps is particularly potent on an empty stomach.

I had been feeling rather stiff and tense until the drink kicked in, and now I'm much more relaxed.  
Another woman has joined the party, and this one is tiny, certainly no taller than 5' 2" and extraordinarily pretty. All fresh faced, flaxen-haired wholesomeness, but with a killer body. Like one of those girls from a shower gel commercial.  
Her name is Danielle, she's taking Media Studies at Uni and she works with Jem as part of an internship or something.  
Call me rude but I don't care. I don't care about anything, as I feel my anxieties lifting from me.

I don't care about the way Damon has become very physically demonstrative, or that his motor skills are struggling to catch up with his thought process.  
Nor do I care when he laughs vivaciously at something I say, tweaks my shoulders and refers to me as 'mate'.  
Mate! Normally I think guys who call their dates 'mate' should be shot, but not tonight it would seem. Tonight, I don't care.

My waning attention is suddenly gained by Alex when he stands with a slight wobble, pushes back his chair and announces that he's going outside for a 'proper' smoke.  
Damon has fought his way to the bar to get another round in, Jem is in deep conversation with Danielle, and Dave is demonstrating some sort of card trick to a perplexed-looking Graham.  
This is too good an opportunity to miss, and I can't quite believe my luck as I subtly rise from my seat, and make my way towards the doors.

The blast of cold night air almost knocks me off my feet, and I take in deep lungfuls of it - well, it's not exactly fresh air, but it's as fresh as the exhaust fume atmosphere of London has to offer - and immediately locate Alex sitting at one of the wooden tables on the pavement outside the pub.

He tears a small piece of cardboard from a packet of Rizla cigarette papers, and even before he produces the small transparent bag containing a grass-like substance, I already know he isn't preparing a simple roll-up.

"I dunno what this is like but it was fucking expensive, and it smells amazing." He grins up at me widely.

I narrow my eyes, having seen enough of this particular drug being smoked by my friends back home to venture a safe guess as to what type of 'grass' it is.  
"Looks like skunk to me. You'd better not overdo it, you're already pretty wasted."

Pinching it between the tips of his fingers, he piles it onto the Rizlas' with a devil-may-care shrug of his narrow shoulders.  
"I know I'm hammered and this'll probably get me completely stoned, but Damon's dropped an E and he's so much easier to deal with when I'm totally wrecked."

I notice him falter suddenly, and he looks extremely embarrassed. "Shit, sorry Sam. I don't mean to keep bitching about Damon. He isn't a bad bloke really."

"That's okay." I say, joining him on the damp bench. "It's just a matter of artistic differences."  
Freely I'll admit that every time I've read this phrase in an article regarding a band, it's been in reference to them splitting up and going their separate ways.  
Isn't 'artistic differences' just a polite way of saying 'the band members now hate each other's guts'?

He lights up the spliff, takes a drag and contemplates this for a moment before answering. "Yeah I suppose you could say that. He's just become so obsessed with being better."

"You mean making a better album than the last?"

"Well that's how it might look, but he just wants Blur to be better than Suede. Simple as that really. He hates all the attention Brett's been getting in the press lately."

Alex offers the joint to me but I wave it away, reaching into my handbag instead for my pack of Silk Cut. Convinced that if I take a tote on that thing I'll either puke or fall into a permanent couldn't-care-less stupor.  
God alcohol is a miracle worker,  
I don't even care that my kind-of boyfriend has taken an ecstasy in the toilets. He who should never ever need such narcotics. He has more bounce than Zebedee.  
But hey ho, it's none of my business really. It all comes with the territory doesn't it?  
These rockstar types survive solely on a diet of cigarettes, drugs and alcohol. Much like students but with musical talent thrown in.

I don't even care that Alex has just confirmed that Damon feels a sense of rivalry towards Brett and his band. I guess I've always been able to sense the simmering envy barely suppressed, bubbling below the surface.  
What I do care about though, is whether or not this rivalry extends beyond the music. Is it personal? Is it related to the love triangle? For some reason I still care about this very much, and can no longer refrain from asking. 

"Alex, does the rivalry thing have anything to do with Brett's ex?" I ask, attempting to sound as casual as possible whilst simultaneously over-enunciating the last two words so they don't distort into "Brett sex" 

"Brett's ex?" He echoes, as if the thought has never dawned on him before. "You mean Damon's ex, Justine?"

I lean forwards, eager for him to continue without the need for promoting.  
He rubs his chin and looks thoughtful and an agonising pause ensues.

"I suppose it could have, but it wouldn't make sense being as she left Brett for Damon.." He says at long last.

"She broke up with Brett for Damon? She didn't cheat on him?"

Alex pulls a face and takes a sharp intake of breath. "Ooh now, that's hard to say. I think there could've been a bit of an overlap, if not then she definitely chucked Brett to start seeing Damon. If  anything Damon insists that Brett is bitter but I dunno.....All it's done is cause a load of trouble if you ask me, especially with all the moving in and out."

"Moving in and out?" I parrot.

"Yeah well Brett lived with Justine in her swanky pad in Kensington, her dad is loaded so he bought the place for her, anyway....when she broke it off with Brett he needed a place to stay so he moved in with us at Moorhouse road. Then Damon moved out, went living with Justine until it recently all went tits up, and he came back."

"Oh my God. What a mess." I blink rapidly, my mind racing to try and keep up but it's hampered by the booze.

"I'm surprised Damon told you about her." Alex splutters slightly as he inhales too deeply and the smoke from the joint catches at the back of his throat. "It's all still a bit raw you see. That's the impression we all got anyway."

"Damon didn't tell me, Brett did. Well, he didn't really go into any great detail-."

"Hang on. When have you talked to Brett about it?" He interrupts, surveying me suspiciously through watery eyes.

 

Ah.  
It would seem that Alex isn't quite that drunk or stoned after all.


	8. My Guy

"You've been going out with Brett?"  
Alex's voice is shrill and he sounds more than just a tad surprised. His tone is laced with accusation and unmistakable horror.

"No, not like that." I hiss, my eyes darting around us, paranoid that one of the others may have come out to see where we are and might overhear. "We went to the hospital together. Which was his sisters' idea, and today we just.....well we just hung out that's all. There's nothing going on between Brett and me, I can promise you that."

"If there's nothing funny going on, then why haven't either of you mentioned it before?" His dark eyes bore into me as if telepathically drilling two holes into my skull with his retinas, seeking out the truth.

I shrug hopelessly "I don't know. We're both kind of worried that Damon won't like it. Even though it shouldn't be a big deal."

"It shouldn't be a big deal." Alex agrees, flashing me a bright smile which doesn't quite meet his eyes. "But I do see your point. Damon can be a bit touchy at times, especially where Brett's concerned....but even so, doesn't sex usually get in the way of these types of friendships?"

I raise my eyebrows at him, my hand instinctively flying to my hip. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that Alex. This is the nineties not 1937, and...." I fall silent as I notice his eyes widen suddenly and his face falls, as if he's just remembered something. Something important.

Judging by his expression, it appears he may have left the stove on, and by now the house will have burnt to the ground.  
It's that sort of look.

"Whats the matter?"

"Oh bollocks!" He thwacks himself unnecessarily forcefully on the forehead. "I've invited him down for last orders. He said he'd come if there was time after his studio session."

"Who?" I demand weakly, even though I already have a good idea who 'he' is, but I'm secretly hoping I'm wrong.

"Brett. I told him we're guaranteed a lock-in here, and now it's gonna be super weird knowing the two of you have some sort of secret friendship-thing going on, and I'm the only one who knows."

I place my hand on his arm in an attempt to calm his irrational jitters. "Alex, relax. It's not like we're having an affair. Just chill out, it's no big deal remember?"

He forces a tight smile which ends up looking more like a grimace. The sort of face you pull when you're suffering with trapped wind. "Yeah, yeah I know....but him being here will probably just wind Damon up anyway. Shit, if I let slip to Damon that you're friends with Brett....oh shit. I don't know if I can take this pressure."

I can't tell if Alex's attack of the melodramatics is alcohol or drug induced, or whether or not he's pulling my leg and finding it all highly entertaining. Either way, I decide we can't stay out here. Otherwise the rest of our group might start to suspect that Alex and I have something to hide.

"If you thought it'd wind Damon up, then why did you invite Brett?"  
I stand and urge Alex to do the same. "Is it to get your own back on Damon for giving you a hard time these past couple of days?"

"No. I invited him for Danielle."

"W-what?" Suddenly I'm rooted to the spot as if the soles of my Doc Martens have been superglued to the asphalt. "What do you mean, for Danielle?"

Alex reaches up and begins smoothing down his floppy, curtain fringe. "Well it was Jem's idea, to fix her up with one of my musician mates. Jem reckons she goes for the tall, lean and slightly undernourished type-"

"Undernourished?" 

"Yeah, Brett has that look. You know, like he needs a few more roast dinners. An emergency hamburger, and preferably more sleep than just four hours a night. You know what I mean?"

I stare at Alex, unable to muster a response that would be deemed appropriate. I don't know the man well enough yet to give him a slap.

"Anyway, apparently Danielle is just looking for a good time, nothing serious. So I thought I'd introduce her to Brett being as he's been single for a while now. A quick, no-strings shag could be exactly what he needs to help him move on from Justine."

"Alex no! Don't you dare."

Alex stares at me, and I hastily attempt to cover my blunder. "I mean, it's just not right. Sex is never the solution when it comes to getting over someone. It usually makes you feel worse, and it wouldn't be fair on Danielle either. Trust me. She'd feel used. It's a woman thing."

"Alright." He says eventually, and I can practically see the cogs whirring as he processes this new information. "I'll try to set her up with Dave, but if she likes her men tall and dark I doubt she'll go a bundle on short and ginger."

 

*******************

 

The large brass bell has just been rung, calling for last orders when the door swings open and two tall, familiar figures wander in. One of which is far more distinctive and familiar than the other.

The less-familiar man is, well how can I put it kindly? No oil painting. Much like Dave, bless him, it's not his fault and I know it's wrong to form such judgemental opinions based on a person's looks, but it's a natural reaction isn't it? Within so many seconds of seeing someone for the first time your brain absentmindedly reacts to the drop-dead gorgeous types, the human gargoyles, and everything else in between.

Well, this character isn't really, really ugly as such. He's just plain. He has a long face with an elongated narrow nose that becomes bulbous at the end. His eyes small and deep-set, give him a slightly piggy-look. His brown hair hangs down to his shoulders in lank sheets, his clothes are oversized on his skinny frame which adds to his dishevelled look.  
I have seen this lanky, baggy-clothed man before. On stage, playing guitar during Suede's set.

His companion of course, is his fellow band member Brett. And the contrasts between the pair could not be more striking even if they physically hit you between the eyes. 

They're not the same height. Brett's buddie is taller, easily as tall as Jarvis - which must put him around the 6' 3" mark - but Brett is far more aesthetically pleasing. The angles of his face now appear even sharper and well-defined, his pouty lips even more perfect, compared to the other man's slightly doughy features.  
He's wearing his trademark leather jacket, a black T.shirt that's so tight you can see his nipples through it, and grey boot-cut jeans.

I feel an odd tension as I watch him scan the room for a familiar face.  
Alongside me at the next table, Alex stands and calls out to him.  
Brett nods in response and begins making his way to the bar, but then he sees me and smiles. His slow, lazy lopsided smile that seems to start on one side of his face before the other side catches up.  
Then he winks, and I get the knot in my stomach. 

"So, what's all that about?" Alex whispers through a fixed grin as he makes his way passed me. "Did he just wink at you?"

"Yes. Maybe. He does that." I answer breezily, though in hushed tones. "It's just something he does, isn't it?"

"No Sam. It really isn't." 

I swallow hard as Alex moves Brett-wards, his words ringing in my ears, deafening out the repetitive chorus of the Shamen's now infamous 'Ebenezer Goode'

 

Damon has yet to notice Brett's arrival, and is discussing the process of experimenting with distorting sounds. It's hard not to drift off as he refers to Syd Barrett's technique of running a zippo lighter along the fretboard of an electric guitar as ingenious, and Graham goes into further detail but I just can't focus anymore.  
My head already feels overloaded to the point of exploding.

Dave has wisely escaped, having now joined Alex, Brett and his band mate by the bar. Danielle is still talking with Jem, so for want of something better to do I totter off to the ladies to check my hair and makeup.

 

My smokey eyes and sultry make-up seem to look darker and heavier on me now than they did when I sculpted myself a new face in the gentle, comforting light of the bathroom mirror back at the flat.  
Now my eyes are smudging, so I look like a panda that works nights, my lipstick is slipping, and the harsh lighting in the women's toilets almost make me reel in shock when I see my reflection.

God I look awful. But, at the same time, as I fumble in my bag for my compact, to touch-up my powder and reapply my kohl liner and lipstick, I feel confidence surging. This new face isn't mine, it isn't the face of mousey little Samantha Lewis. I look older, and I could be someone else. Anyone else. Someone with more confidence. Someone....sexier?

I pout at myself in the mirror and pull  kissy- faces, drunkenly amused by the deep redness of my lipstick as it hasn't been blotted yet. Normally when I use red lipstick I blot it until it fades to a soft rouge colour rather than leave it as a vampy, 'come-up-and-see-me-sometime' seductive shade of crimson.

But, the deep red does match the flowers on my blouse, so I could just leave it. And oh yes, the blouse!  
"Why the hell not? You're only young once." I giggle to myself as I open the top two buttons, displaying just a hint of cleavage. 

Pleased with my efforts I, hurriedly spritz myself with more perfume and leave the ladies immersed in a cloud of Tommy Girl, raging hormones and alcohol-fuelled courage.  
I blearily scour the area around the bar, and resist the urge to punch the air when I see the fellas haven't moved.

I strut across to them, a plan already formulating in my scheming mind.  
I reach Alex first, who upon seeing me does the polite thing and makes the introductions.

"Sam, this is Mat." He gestures towards the dull, play-doh nosed man. "He's the bassist and one of the founding members of Suede...Mat, this is Sam. She's Damon's girlfriend."

It's strange having that title bestowed upon me, and stranger still hearing it spoken out-loud by someone else for the first time. It almost makes everything official now, like announcing to the public that Damon and myself are actually an item.  
It almost throws me for a moment, but as Mat leans in and takes my hand I regain my composure.

"Lovely to meet you Mat." I smile, and straining upwards plant a small kiss on one side of his face, then the other. Just like I've seen it done in the films. Very demurely. Although it appears I may have left lipstick imprints, which doesn't ever happen in the movies.

"Oh, um likewise I'm sure." Mat smiles, and seems quite taken aback by the sophisticated greeting. I contemplate telling him about the lipstick marks I've inadvertently made, but decide against it. I'm sure someone else will point it out to him.

Brett is standing to Mat's left and has just slipped an unlit cigarette between his lips, so I hastily move forwards, manoeuvring my body directly in front of him and place my hands on his shoulders.

"Brett. Nice to see you." I say, and he has the good grace to remove the cig and lean down slightly so I don't have to stand on tip-toes in order to greet him in the same manner. I've already blotted my lips on Mat, so I've nothing to fear.

"And you Sammy." He replies, and returns the gesture by gently kissing my cheek as I simultaneously kiss his.

I feel my heart pump beneath my breast as I inhale deeply, breathing through the layers. The leather of his jacket. The fruity tang of his shampoo'd hair. The spice of his aftershave. The clean, floweriness of the soap he uses. And beneath it all, the base notes that are him.

The knot in my gut tightens and I know that this is all wrong. I shouldn't notice all these little details, and I shouldn't feel the way I do.

But then something else happens, I'm so distracted by the unsettling effect he's having on me, that my coordination momentarily lapses. As he goes to place a kiss on my other cheek I move my face too slowly, and he accidentally catches me fully on the lips.

And bang! The unexpected sensation sends shockwaves through my system. A current of excitement surges down from my lips and into my stomach where an Olympic gymnast seems to have taken up residence, and now they're doing back-flips and twirling a flaming baton.

Suddenly feeling quite shy, I move away from Brett awkwardly. He doesn't seem at all fazed by the accidental kiss, as I briefly think I catch his gaze lowering down to my neckline, to the buttons I've undone, but I can't be sure. The peach schnapps, alcoholic fuzz is clouding my judgement and my body is contorted with the conflicting desires to pull him close and kiss him again, or return to my seat as fast as my legs can carry me.

In a daze, I realise to my horror that he's now wearing my lipstick too....on his lips! Oh hell. How bloody embarrassing, and what if Damon notices? I realise the kindest thing to do would be to tell Brett, but all at once my senses return with a spine-rattling jolt as I see the beautiful Danielle approaching. I've no idea what comes over me, but I move hurriedly in her direction, overcome by the sudden need to waylay her.

"Hey, Danielle." I stumble towards her and hope my smile comes across as convincing. "I think I have something in my eye, would you mind taking a look for me?"

It's a feeble lie, but it seems to do the trick and I scare myself by how natural lying comes to me.

"Oh. The light isn't very good in here." She states, as I prise my eyelid open and bend lower to even the height difference. "Shall we go in the loo so I can take a better look?"

I squint passed her and notice Brett, Alex, Mat and Dave moving towards the jukebox.  
"Er, no. Actually it seems better now. Thanks. It'll be alright."  
I blink slowly, and twitch my eye for added effect. "Shall we get a drink?"

 

We wait at the bar, hoping we've not missed last orders. Danielle stands on the foot-rail to gain a few inches, years of experience having taught her this is the best way to get attention. The best chance of being served at a busy bar lined with tall men.

As we're waiting, Alex turns and calls across to Damon, who's still sat exactly where I left him.  
"Hey Damo, who's this?"

With impeccable timing, just as Damon looks up Brett finishes punching the desired code into the jukebox, and a catchy electronic beat begins pulsating from the speakers.

              "I got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside,  
                                 I got the month of May..."

Sings the distorted female voice, and Damon's face is filled with irritation. But thank goodness he's too intoxicated and pissed off to notice that Brett's lips are practically the same shade as mine.

"Ooh. It's the Eurythmics!" Dave exclaims, with barely containable amusement, and Alex erupts into a fit of boisterous giggles.

"Very funny. Nob heads." Damon shouts in their direction, his look tightening from one of tolerance to violence, and he makes a point of turning his chair away from them.

With Mat loitering awkwardly in the corner, wisely opting to avoid goading Damon, Dave, Brett and Alex form a rowdy trio. Clutching their beer bottles, they stand arm in arm, moving to the music and singing along to the chorus.

            "I guess, you'd say. What can make me feel this way?  
                         My guy......Talkin' about my guy.."

I can't help laughing at their antics, and as Danielle and I take our drinks back to our table, I inadvertently catch Brett's eye and he winks at me again as he sings.

Oh God.  
What is happening to me? What is this rapport we have somehow accidentally developed? It's so intimate. So exciting. So strange. So gorgeous. And so wrong.

"Oh I'm sorry. I didn't realise that was your boyfriend, or I would have moved seats when he came in so the two of you could've sat together." Danielle is saying now, undoubtedly having just seen Brett winking at me. And perhaps she has noticed the lipstick.

Thank God she didn't mistakenly think he was winking at her. I shudder.

"No, he's not my boyfriend." I correct her a bit too hastily.

"Oh. Is he anyones boyfriend do you know? He's quite good looking."

I pretend I haven't heard her and swiftly take my seat at our table. Feeling suddenly quite sober and sickened.

 

*********************

 

The hour is late, and the first grey slivers of dawn begin breaking through the gaps in the thick, burgundy velveteen curtains.

Our group ended up taking two cabs back to Moorhouse Road. Myself, Damon, Graham, and Dave in one, and Alex, Jem, Brett, Mat and Danielle in the other.

Jarvis had already gone to bed, his room being the one downstairs in the basement, and thus the least affected by any sound pollution, the party continued, with much drinking, smoking, drug-taking and music playing.

 

I spend the majority of the night cuddling up to Damon on the sofa, sitting nestled within the sturdy embrace of his arm, as I try not to watch Brett too much for the rest of the evening.  
But I can't help myself. Because every time I glance in his direction I see Danielle somewhere nearby. Hovering like a greedy bee around a gorgeous flower.

Mat had produced a discreet little paper wrap of cocaine, which was passed around the living room, offered to each guest in turn.  
Brett, now minus my lipstick, shrugs in a I-can-take-it-or-leave-it sort of way, when it reaches him, and says he might have a line later, but as it's midweek and he's got an early start in the morning he doesn't think it would be a 'good move'.

D'ya think? Is what I want to say to him sarcastically, before adding that it would be wiser still to forgo the drinking and head up to bed. Alone. Definitely alone. In order to get some sleep.  
From what I can catch, his bands' late session at the studio tomorrow has been rebooked for the morning, to slot in another television appearance in the evening.  
He's already been at the studio tonight since 7:00pm.  
Perhaps Alex was right, maybe Brett does only survive on the bare minimum of sleep each night.

When Damon tries to slip the wrap of 'Charlie' into my hand, I politely decline. If I can't handle a bit of skunk, then I'm most definitely not hardcore enough for this shit.  
Besides, it could be bad stuff, I tell him, and then you could end up dead or handicapped for life.  
He laughs raucously at this, then kisses me tenderly on the forehead. My Puritan ways obviously amuse him, and who knows, he may even find them endearing in a backward, goody-two-shoes kind of way.

When I look up I see Danielle has sat herself on the floor beside Brett, and their heads are pressed close together, their body language insinuating they are making more than just polite chit-chat, a little nausea rises in my throat and I swallow it quickly.

Hoping I don't throw up in my mouth, I make a point of averting my gaze.  
Pfft. He can talk to whoever he so chooses and it has nothing to do with me.  
Still, I feel a twinge in my stomach as if this time the Olympic athlete has landed badly. Fucked up the dismount and torn a muscle, or sprained an ankle or something. 

Damon announces he needs to use the toilet, and as he leaves the room I notice he's having difficulty walking in a straight line.  
I call after him, wishing him luck with negotiating the stairs, and take a long swig from a bottle of God knows what. Lager I think, which I don't even like.  
I'm so drunk now I could be drinking the contents of Jarvis' toolbox. Lighter fuel, anti-freeze and whatever else. It'd still taste edible to me.

While Mat, Dave and Alex are doing some kind of boat-dance on the floor, sitting in a row, mimicking the action of rowing whilst singing a tuneless rendition of "We are Sailing." their noise makes it impossible for me to hear.  
But I see Brett gesturing to Danielle, would she like a drink? She nods and he takes her glass from her and heads towards the door.

I try to look engrossed by what the people sitting next to me are saying, Jem is explaining the importance of proper management and marketing to Graham, but as Brett draws near he purposely lingers. As though he's waiting for me to notice he's there.

"How you doin' Sammy?" He asks eventually,  in his irritatingly adorable Sussex twang. He's obviously grown tired of waiting for me to acknowledge his presence.

"Great. Super thanks. Never been better." I lie and plaster on a big, fake smile. "Just having a beer."

"I can see that." He remarks dryly.

Hmph. Clever sod.

"Your blood sugar alright?"

"Yes. Honestly, I'm fine and there's no need for you to be concerned about me Wolfie."

Honestly? I half expect the word to get caught in my throat and choke me. It's a blatant lie, I can hear how hollow and empty the words sound as they leave my mouth, but what am I supposed to say? 'No actually I'm not doing so great, feeling pretty shitty and I'm as jealous as hell.'

No. Not an option.

"I would've come over before but.." Brett glances back over his shoulder at Danielle.

"Yeah I can see you've been busy."

"Are you um, are you staying tonight then?" 

I nod, my eyes still trained on the floor. For some reason I can't bring myself to look at him.

"Right. I see....okay then...well, I'll see ya later perhaps Sammy."

With that he disappears through the door, kitchen-bound.

I stare daggers at the oblivious, and innocent Danielle in her low slung, embroidered combat trousers, which are undeniably feminine and accentuate her enviably flat, bronzed stomach. A slinky little vest top shows off her pert chest and toned upper arms.

The more I look at her the more overdressed and inadequate I feel. I'm too frumpy in my thick tights. Too ridiculous and over-flowery. My blouse suddenly looks like it could go to the opera all by itself. I'm too overdone, my makeup too heavy and not natural at all.  
With her golden hair and healthy tan she looks like a softer, fresher version of Madonna. And I look like some spinster aunt.

Perhaps noticing the rather bilious shade of green I've turned, Alex comes clambering over. Swaying unsteadily as he gets up off the floor and rises to his full height.  
Before he has the chance to speak, Brett comes back into the room carrying drinks for Danielle and himself. As he passes by our way he winks at me again.  
I half-smile back but then notice Alex frowning.

"I saw that." 

"And?" I shrug.

"And? And why does he keep winking at you?"

I look to where Brett and Danielle are now standing by the fireplace, their bodies close together as they talk animatedly and laugh at some private joke.

"I've no idea. Why don't you go and ask him if it's bugging you so much?" I suggest, trying not to be distracted by the way Danielle simpers at Brett, engrossed in their intimate conversation. As if he's sharing all the secrets of the universe with her.  
"Although, I'd say he's otherwise engaged right now, wouldn't you? Think about it Alex, if Brett fancied me would he really be over there now chatting up Danielle?"

Alex's eyebrows shoot up so far they almost land on the back of his neck. "Yeah you're right of course. Sorry Sam. And that....that wasn't my doing.." He gestures towards the pair but I deliberately avoid looking at them again. "...I tried to fix her up with Mat instead but she already had the hots for Brett. She told Jem in the pub, and she's not interested in his music or fancy degree in archeology-"

"Architecture." 

"Architecture. Right. Well, she doesn't give a toss about any of that. She just wants to get into his trousers, so I suppose that means she ain't that bothered about being used ay?"

I sit motionless, incapable of any movement. Anchored to the spot by the weight of my sadness, my face no doubt a complete rictus of dismay.

The woman isn't even interested in what he does, or who he really is. He's so wonderfully complicated and talented, and it's all wasted on someone like her. He needs someone who can appreciate his glorious complexity, and she is so undeserving.

 

Alex wanders off, Damon returns, and I barely notice. I'm lost now to drunken bitterness and resentful thoughts.  
Battling with feelings I've never encountered before.  
Up until now, I thought I'd always been so solidly sensible in matters of the heart.  
A firm believer in monogamy, I've never been unfaithful, and the rough experience with Mark has led me to vow never to cheat on anyone.  
I've never suffered from unrequited love, or been attracted to what I'd call the 'wrong' sort of man.  
I've never had a passionate love affair with someone or been consumed with desire. I loved or was at least very fond of my ex boyfriends, but I've never experienced irresistible lust.

Now the right man has come along, Damon - the man of my dreams whom I'm waiting to experience my first real romantic 'zing' with - and I'm suddenly feeling horribly attracted to someone else. I'm accidentally 'zinging' with another.  
It's ridiculous. This isn't how I operate....and he isn't even my type.

I dart a look at Brett and fleetingly wonder if he's 'zinging' with her right now. Does he feel those strange little sparks as they touch? They are holding hands now for fucks sake. Well, they're at arms length as Danielle spins around drunkenly to the music and Brett keeps her upright - but they are still touching each other.

Ouch. Forget a sprained ankle, the tiny athlete in my gut just broke a leg and had to be shot.

Unexpected, uncalled-for tears start to well up in my eyes. I blink them away and breath deeply. Clinging on to Damon for dear life.

 

This is not how it's supposed to be. This is seriously messed up.


	9. Brass In Pocket

My eyes blear open and sickness is the first thing I am aware of. Lots of sickness and a terrible throbbing headache. 

As soon as I am capable of thought, it takes a while for me to get passed how incredibly crap I feel, and my drunken sleep may as well have been a coma, I try to piece together the events of last night, I don't quite trust my memory, there are gaps, and my hangover is slowing me down.

I recognise the headboard-less bed I'm in as Damon's, and as I feel him stir behind me I realise he's still here, tucked up with me under his Chelsea football team quilt.  
Well duh, where else would he be? It's his frickin' room. But I've no idea what time it is and...

Oh shit, yes. Now everything starts filtering back. 

Some people had left. Dave, and Mat I think..and then we'd come up to bed.  
I remember the drunken fumbling - oh God - I wish I didn't, but definitely no sex happened. I remember now. And to be fair neither of us were in any fit state to get it on, Damon could barely climb the stairs and now a hazy memory of it taking him at least five minutes just to get undressed comes whooshing back.

There was though as I said, some drunken fumbling. A bit of groping around in the dark and lots of kissing but thankfully nothing more.  
When and if the time comes that Damon and I do sleep together, i at least want to be coherent and able to remember it.  
I'm rather gutted that I can't recall exactly what I felt, during what we did get up to.  
My head was swirling, and I remember giggling a lot but I didn't exactly lose myself in the moment. I wasn't what you'd call overcome with desire. If anything I was too distracted by lots of other, unwanted thoughts.

One of them, and a rather monumental one, was that I couldn't quite shake the realisation that it was the first time I was intimate with another man that wasn't Mark. The first man since Mark.  
This hit me harder than I would've expected, not from any startling contrast between him and Damon (physically, they both share a similar stature and build) but in a nostalgic, sad sort of way.  
It's like a major deal isn't it? Cementing the end of an era. 

The ex who I was once so close to, will never touch me again and now I'm moving on to bigger - no pun intended - and better things. A new life and a new man. A man who I will soon become very intimately acquainted with (fingers crossed) as our relationship develops.

Needless to say, I found all this a bit much to deal with in my drunken state, and that was most definitely a contributing factor to my not wanting to rush into having sex with Damon.  
Call me mad - and many women would - but I need to feel ready before I take a step like that, and I was both relieved and grateful for Damon's patience and understanding.  
Yes he seemed keen to take things further as we fooled around, but he didn't try and push me into anything I didn't want to do.

I'm not a complete prude when it comes to sex, though I have only ever slept with two boys. One was Nick, my ex ex, and it only happened one disastrous time. He was my first, and I was his, and it was all very embarrassing. We'd both just turned seventeen, so I'll be honest....I wasn't expecting much.

It seems to me sex is overrated. On the TV and in the movies it looks like some huge mind-blowing event, when in reality, I've yet to discover what all the fuss is about.  
When I started dating Mark a few months after Nick and I decided it wasn't working out, I was confident that sex would be different with him. 

He was nineteen at the time, and turned twenty during the course of our 12 month on/off relationship, so I wrongly presumed he'd be skilled in the bedroom department (incidentally, I've always found the term 'bedroom department' amusing. It sounds like an outlet in a furniture store, and is so typically English it hurts.)

Anyway, whatever I was expecting, the earth never moved for me when we made love - ugh, that sounds just as cheesy as well - but I have started to wonder if it's all just a bit of a myth.  
A lot of my friends have since confessed that after having rushed into losing their virginity at the legal age of 16 (some before) they were left feeling deflated and conned. As if the movies and magazines are selling us a lie.

Still, if anyone can prove me wrong, then it has to be Damon.  
He's a man. He's 23, so tha means he must be experienced. And he's sexy and gorgeous and....well, his chest is just a little bit on the hairy side for my liking, but now I sound really petty. I mean, I'm sure he'd prefer it if I were a size 10/12 and not a 12/14 but it hasn't put him off. So I really shouldn't be so picky. 

I inwardly scold myself for my nit-picking, and breath deeply to quell the churning in my stomach.

So what if the sight of him as he stripped down to his cute, baggy boxers didn't make me feel faint? That just isn't real life.  
He's still very attractive all the same. Athletic, brawny, and very nicely tapered at the waist.

I sit up slowly in the bed, and absentmindedly notice I'm wearing a UEFA Euro '88 T.shirt. Damon gave it to me last night, but I couldn't see what it was at the time.  
It was the first one he laid his hands on, just something for me to wear in bed - well actually more to save my modesty when I nipped across the landing to use the bathroom.  
That's one of the drawbacks to sharing a house with other people. Especially men. Just because Damon might want to get me naked doesn't mean they want to see it.

Oh God.  
I forgot about that.  
For a few glorious minutes whilst dazed and confused, I'd forgotten all about that. About the other men in the house.  
Well, one man in particular.

I heave my shaky legs out the bed and sit feeling queasy as the terrible memory of the noises comes crashing back now in a moment of unforgivingly harsh crystal clarity.

Danielle had slept here.  
With Brett.  
In bed.  
It wasn't just a hideous nightmare.  
No no no. I don't want it. I don't want it to be real and I don't want to remember.  
What makes matters worse is, I heard it all..

The dodgy and blindingly obvious noises had begun just before Damon drifted off to sleep. We'd been snuggled up together comfortably content, when the suspicious, distinctly male grunting and groaning sounds reached my ears.  
At first I felt slightly embarrassed and awkward about it, as I realised what it was I was actually hearing.  
And then Damon passed a flippant remark which made me feel like my chest had been trampled on.

"Seems Brett got lucky then." He sniggered, not noticing the way I immediately tensed at his words.

Oh. Dear. Jesus.

Words can't describe the inexplicable feelings, and the strange cold chill that crept over me, making me feel sick to my stomach.

Not long after a female voice - Danielle's of course - had joined in, much louder and with a great deal more enthusiasm.  
My God, that woman is vocal. And she was seriously loud, because I wasn't intentionally listening!  
So I had to lie there, with Damon softly snoring beside me, accidentally overhearing Brett having sex.

Their noises were bad enough, but then the obligatory banging of the headboard against the wall - unfortunately it would appear Brett's bed does have one, unlike Damon's - and the squeaking of the bed springs followed, just to add insult to injury.

On and bloody on it went, making me want to tear my ears off and stamp on them in disgust. I remember wishing I was earless, and I could use my hair to cover it up or invest in some elegant headscarves.

Why are the walls so damn thin? This is a big, chunky Victorian house, the walls should be as thick as tree trunks. I shouldn't have heard that, it shouldn't be possible, and...oh God. I think I'm going to be sick.

I manage to stand upright without heaving and move unsteadily towards the door. Walking slowly to the bathroom, not wanting to make any sudden movements. 

Annoyingly once I arrive there, the feeling seems to pass so I put the lid own on the toilet seat and sit shakily.  
Conveniently the wash basin is positioned directly next to the toilet, so this enables me to sit for a while with the tap running, my head poised over the sink, and I use my hand to splash my face with cold water.

I'm being ridiculous. I tell myself sternly.  
All those messed up thoughts and feelings last night, it was nothing more than just the booze confusing me.  
I'm not attracted to Brett, i just like him as a friend that's all, but I don't fancy him. No. Not in the slightest.  
He's been kind to me, and I was probably just mistaking my fondness of him for something else.  
And this jealousy thing with Danielle, it's silly.  
She's exceptionally pretty, so it must have been some form of drunken envy. I wish I were as pretty as her, that's all.

Feeling slightly better at having convinced myself, I take a few deep breaths, turn the tap off and open the door.  
I'm still not fully awake, in spite of the icy water I've just doused myself with, so it comes as a complete shock to the system as I suddenly collide with another body as I'm leaving the room.

I let out a startled shriek, and feel two large hands grasp my shoulders firmly.

"Fuck! Sorry Sammy, are you alright? I didn't expect anyone to be up yet."

There's a slight delay as my brain struggles to register the sight of an equally stunned (and alarmingly underdressed) looking Brett.

God no. Why him? Why now?  
I'm only wearing a tatty T.shirt and knickers, my hair is a tangled mess, resembling a birds nest or haystack, and no doubt my makeup is a smudged wreck. I must be a real genuine child-frightening sight to behold.

"I'm fine. Sorry I... I didn't see you, I wasn't looking where I was going and I'm still half asleep." I babble.  
He's still holding onto me, as if making sure I'm not a figment of his imagination. 

My own hands instinctively flew to his waist as we bumped into each other, and now I'm going to die from embarrassment.  
He's only wearing black, snug-fitting shorts, which are curiously tight around the crotch area I notice, glancing down.  
I'm touching his bare body. I can feel the curve of his hip bones where they jut out, pressing against my palms and for a heart-stopping moment I think I'm actually going to swoon.

Hastily my hands drop to my sides as if his flesh is on fire and I've just been scolded. Carefully he releases me too, but neither of us move and we're standing awfully close.

My face burns hot as I look away, but not before noticing what an extremely fine body he has. Far from being overly muscular, but toned, and with reasonably sized bulges in all the places they should be.

I'm struggling to look at him but I daren't lower my gaze from his face. No, not a good idea. I don't want him to think I'm ogling him, though heaven help me it's tempting to take another look.

"Did you manage to sleep alright?" He asks suddenly, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed.

Ah. Perhaps he's feeling ashamed of his brazen, noisy, bed-rattling antics last night. And so he ought to be.  
My stomach lurches violently again at the very thought of it.  
I'm surprised all the other men in the house haven't congregated outside his bedroom door, ready to give him a round of applause for that impressive performance.

And knowing that Danielle got naked with him, and wriggled around...against that body....ugh.  
My guts churn and I suddenly feel the need to projectile vomit like the girl in The Exorcist movie.  
Instead, I manage to muster the gaul to look him in the eye, and regard him with what I hope he perceives as utter contempt.  
"No actually. I had a bit of trouble getting off."

Unlike you! I want to add, though in a very different sense of the word.  
Bleurgh.

He clenches his teeth and looks quite pained. "Yeah unfortunately Alex and Jem aren't very considerate when it comes to..." He clears his throat. "....well, they don't care if they disturb anyone."

"Alex and Jem?" I repeat dumbly. "So....that was them? Last night?"

Brett scrunches his face now, and looks somewhat bewildered. "Well yeah. Who else would it be?" 

"I thought...Well I thought that maybe...." 

"You thought what Sammy?" He's staring at me hard, his head cocked to one side.  
I hope he might join the dots and catch the gist of what I'm saying but he's not going to make it that easy for me.

"I thought, well even Damon seemed to think it might've been you and Danielle." I gabble hurriedly, my face turning scarlet now.

"Danielle?" He looks unashamedly stumped, as if he hasn't got the vaguest idea of what or who I'm talking about.

Wow. I mean, how rude? Was sex with that woman so insignificant he can't even recall her name? And even if they didn't sleep together they definitely must have something going on now, judging by how cosy they got last night.

As the penny finally drops he laughs softly, a sound which is like music to my ears. "Oh, Danielle? What me and her? Um, no."

"Oh....right. Sorry. It's just that, well  it looked as if you were enjoying each other's company."

"Not really, I was just putting up with her for something to do. She was completely off her face and starting to get on my nerves to be honest. Wouldn't stop talking at me."  
He raises his eyebrows. "So no, she definitely didn't stay. I ended up calling her a cab."

I laugh myself now, feeling almost hysterical with relief.  
Oh Brett, you lovely lovely man, I think, smiling goofily at him.  
I could kiss you.  
Oh dear, I suddenly realise that I would actually quite like to kiss him.  
Especially after that accidental kiss last night in the pub, that kiss that had turned my insides to jelly. What was that all about? I need to find out. But I can't. And I shouldn't want to. It's wrong of me to want to. I have a boyfriend.

"I don't understand why Damon would think it was me and her making all that racket. He knows my room is across the landing here." Brett indicates to the room next to the bathroom. "And Alex and Jem are quite notorious for their noise. Which is one of the reasons I swapped rooms when Damon moved out."

"Ah, you pinched his room? Good call." I giggle, suddenly more conscious of my dishevelled appearance now. And I can't be certain but I think he is eyeing my T.shirt with curiosity.  
"Well the noise certainly didn't keep Damon awake. He went out like a light almost as soon as his head touched the pillow." I add pointedly, which is a slight exaggeration but for some reason I feel the need to let Brett know that i didn't sleep with Damon.

"Oh, right."

Boom! Message received and understood. He has duly noted what I am subtly trying to say.

He blinks slowly and his eyes hold mine, and there's a strange sort of loaded silence. He still hasn't moved, and I don't want him to. I feel my blood chugging through my veins, making my heart thud in my mouth, distracting me from my monstrous headache.

"Well, I suppose I'd better have my shower." He says at long last, shattering the heavily charged atmosphere.

"Oh, yes. Sorry." I stand aside allowing him to pass, and tug awkwardly at the T.shirt as I walk away. Making sure my knickers aren't on display.

"Oh, by the way Sammy."

"Yes?" I whirl around to look at him again a little too eagerly.

"I didn't get chance to tell you last night, but you looked....great." He smiles his lopsided smile.

"Oh. Thanks wolfie, you didn't look too bad yourself." 

Crap did I really just say that? I'm flirting again and I don't mean to.  
Oh dear. I really need to stop making a habit of this.

 

**********************

 

After tip-toeing back to Damon's room and agonising over whether I should get back into bed or get dressed, I decide on the latter.  
As much as I like the idea of cuddling up to Damon and going back to sleep, I can't shake how undeniably rough I feel, and more importantly I need my insulin shot. Which I don't have with me, and my blood sugar will be high and that will add to how rubbish I feel.

My clothes look decidedly rumpled, my eyes are hazy and my lipstick's long gone.  
I step back out onto the landing, gently closing the door behind me so as not to wake Damon. At first I feel bad at the prospect of leaving without saying goodbye but having since discovered, courtesy of his digital alarm clock, that it isn't yet 7:00am, I hardly think it'd be fair waking him up. Especially considering it was gone 4:00am when he went to sleep.

I creep along to the top of the stairs and hear the shower turn off. Followed by the sound of Brett singing in the bathroom.  
His voice is a low hum, and then animatedly high-pitched and operatic.  
So much for me trying to be quiet. I grin to myself, and try to work out what it is he's singing, but I can only catch sporadic bits....

                   "...I'm gonna make you notice....  
                          ...I'm winking at you....."

How appropriate, I think.

            "....I'm gonna make you see, there's nobody else here.  
                  No one like me...I'm special, so special..."

Spookily accurate. Can't argue with that either.

                         "....I've got to have some of your attention.  
                                       ....Give it to me...."

You got it. It'd be rude not to.

The door suddenly opens and he instantly quiets, as if only just remembering that there are other people not far away, trying to sleep.  
It takes a few seconds for the mist to disperse, and he appears in a shroud of steam like some sort of glistening angel.  
He's only wearing a white towel now, and his damp skin glistens with tiny droplets of water.  
I swallow hard.

"Oh." He says looking genuinely surprised to see me again. "Are you off now?"

I nod. "Yeah. I know it's still early but I don't feel too good. I'm due my insulin, so I'd probably better get going."

He walks towards me, his face filled with concern. "Are you alright? Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, thank you. I'll be fine really. Just overdid it a bit last night I think."

"Well I didn't like to say anything, but I had noticed you knocking 'em back. The doctor told you to look after yourself, remember?" 

He both looks and sounds uncharacteristically stern, and I instinctively react by hanging my head like a child that's been caught doing something they're not supposed to.  
"Yes I know, thanks for the reminder. But I've already told you, you don't have to worry about me."

"Well someone has to." He says, and his serious pout gradually melts into a smile. "Listen, if you can face it I'll sort you out some breakfast before you head off."

"No it's fine. You really don't need to go to any trouble.

"It's no trouble Sammy." He insists. "How about, you go down and stick the kettle on while I get dressed, and I'll make the toast....deal?"

Resisting the urge to tell him he really needn't bother putting any clothes on for my benefit, I agree to the deal.  
As he wafts by into his room I inhale his clean, fresh scent. Yes I smell the soap, but he also smells like something more intrinsic, like dew.  
Like he actually bathes in the morning dew.

 

A short while later and I find myself sitting at the solid square, pine table in the kitchen nursing a half drunk cup of coffee that's now only lukewarm.  
I watch Brett as he rifles through various cupboards and drawers in the sideboard, looking for some paracetamol for what he's calling his 'bastard of a headache.' 

The shampooed sheen of his just blow-dried hair is still visible in the gloomily dim light from the long sash window.  
Outside it's raining, the drizzle moistening the bricks and concrete of West London. The combination of bad weather and bad hangover make the likelihood of me journeying home anytime soon seem unlikely.

Across from me, Jarvis  - who was already up, dressed and ready to face the day when I arrived downstairs - sits sipping his tea and thumbing through a copy of the Daily Mail.  
Clearly the noise from last night's revelling didn't affect him, as he looks bright eyed and fresh as a daisy.  
I on the other hand, feel and look like the gnarled old oak up on Hampstead Heath.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat Sammy?"  Brett asks me again, his voice muffled from inside a cupboard. "You might feel better if you try and eat something."

"Thanks but I don't think eating would be a good idea." I make a gigantic effort to take another sip of my coffee without heaving. "I'll feel better once I've had my insulin. As soon as I can face it I'll get going."

"Well don't even think about taking the tube when you're not feeling well. I'll order you a taxi. And don't worry about the fare, this is on me."  
I'm about to say something in protest but he anticipates my response and holds a finger up to shush me.  
"It isn't open to debate, so don't bloody argue."

I force an over-exasperated sigh, but can't help smiling at him. "Thank you. You're too sweet."

"I know. Just don't tell anyone."

It's only then we become aware of a presence lingering in the doorway, and both look up to see Damon.  
Clad in a navy dressing gown that's only been half-heartedly tied at the belt, so it hangs open loosely, he looks dishevelled, tired and perceptibly irritated.

"Sweet is he?" He looks at me questioningly.

Jarvis glances up from his paper, only just realising that Damon has put in an appearance. "D'you want a brew Damon?"

"And just how is he so sweet exactly?" Damon is demanding, not bothering to respond to Jarvis' offer. 

In true Jarvis' style, he pours him a cup of tea anyway.

I match Damon's glare with a defiant look of my own. "Brett's kindly offered to ring a taxi for me. That's all."

"He doesn't need to, I can do that."

Brett huffs and rolls his eyes. "Does it matter really? The most important thing is that Sammy gets home for her insulin."  
He stalks off into the hall, and a few moments later we hear him speaking on the telephone. Presumably ordering me a cab.

"And since when have you been 'Sammy'?" Damon's frown forges into a deep scowl. Making his handsome face look hard and cold.

"Oh, that. It's just a sort of nickname really."  I say hurriedly, trying to sound convincing. Then I swiftly try to change the subject. I don't have the energy to deal with any drama right now.  
"I wasn't being rude by getting up early by the way, I just didn't want to wake you."

He pulls out a chair and the legs screech noisily across the floor, the grating sound is right up there with nails on a chalkboard when it comes to sounds which make my hair stand on end, and I have to try hard not to flinch.

"He woke me up with his poxy hairdryer." Damon throws a hand gesture in the general direction of the hallway, just as Brett returns.

Jarvis chuckles, which seems to make Damon even more miffed. "You might well laugh Jarv. I'll tell you the real joke shall I? A bloke using a fuckin' hairdryer, now that's funny."

"It's quicker to use a hairdryer." Brett explains. "My hairs' thick, it takes ages to dry and I'm not going out with wet hair."

"It's fuckin' raining, in case you haven't noticed." Damon points out, sounding increasingly impatient. "It'll only get wet anyway."

"You can catch a nasty head cold from going outside when your hair is still damp." Jarvis offers helpfully, and I notice Brett trying to bite back an amused grin.

"If you're not waking me up with your hairdryer it's your singing in the bleedin' shower." Damon continues, rather putting me in mind of a nagging wife chiding a hen-pecked husband.

At that Jarvis abandons his paper, and turns to face Brett "Oh speaking of singing, have you decided on what you're going to sing tonight?"

"No, not yet." Brett looks deeply troubled now, and bites on his thumb nail "It can't be one of our own songs because it's for some compilation album for radio one, cover versions only."

"Eh that's alright though innit? Your manager got you a good deal there mate. And what's the programme you're goin' on?" 

"The Word."

"The word? Wow. Brett that's national TV." I chirp excitedly. Quite forgetting myself, my hangover and Damon too for that matter.

"Don't remind me. I'm nervous enough, and I still need to decide on what to perform-"

Suddenly I'm struck with inspiration - or madness - possibly both and I find myself butting in before he's had chance to finish. "Ooh, what about the song you were singing upstairs?" 

"Hmph. Singing? That's not what I would call it." Damon grumbles, his head resting in his hands.

He really isn't his usual jovial self this morning. Obviously late nights and early mornings don't agree with him, and I find myself wondering if he's always this disagreeable after partying or whether it has anything to do with the added pressure of working on a new album.  
Not to mention this silly rivalry business.

To his credit, Brett ignores his jibes and is looking at me with curious interest. "Brass in Pocket? By the Pretenders?" He asks as if to clarify.

Ah, so that's what the song was. I should've known that.

"But that's originally sung by a woman." Damon informs Brett needlessly. Then he sniggers into his coffee cup. "Actually say no more. Why would that bother you?"

"But the song is so....befitting, don't you think?"  
I'm on a roll now it would seem. Growing increasingly excited as I mull it over in my mind.  I'm never usually so outspoken, especially in relation to matters that aren't any of my business, but for some reason I feel quite strongly about this. I genuinely care.  
"You want to make an impact on national TV, what better way than to sing a song about demanding attention?"

Jarvis nods in apparent agreement, and I feel a rush of confidence like I've never felt before.  
Brett looks thoughtful but unsure. Still, he doesn't immediately dismiss my idea, so I take this as a sign of encouragement.

"Look, your style is so distinctive, your music and the clothes you wear on stage really stand out from the crowd."

He shrugs noncommittally "That's the whole point. I dress quite flamboyantly on stage to make a statement. So we don't look anything like all these grunge bands that are around right now. We're different and I want people to notice that."

"Right, so if you have to sing someone else's song then it has to be one that would really fit in with your image. I think Brass in Pocket would be an awesome choice."

Brett arches an eyebrow at me. "You know, you may just have something there." His mouth curves upwards in a secretive boyish smile. "I was right all along. Brains as well as beauty." He mutters.

This time there's no detectable trace of sarcasm in his voice, it's meant as a compliment and I can practically feel my heart swell at his words.  
I smile back shyly, and try to hide my ferocious blushes behind my hair, but then I look across at Damon and see he isn't smiling. On the contrary his face is a mask of outrage.

"Well being as you're suggesting songs for him to sing, why don't you do us all a favour and sort out his wardrobe too. You work in a clothes shop don't you?"  He says churlishly. 

"A women's clothes shop."

"And?" 

Brett tuts exasperatedly and begins fiddling with a juice carton.

I deliberately skirt around Damon's attempt at being facetious by responding with some sarcasm of my own.  
"And...Brett's definitely not a woman." I say boldly, as a vision of Brett emerging from the bathroom floats through my mind's eye. "Trust me, I have noticed."  
I'm hoping Damon will admire my honesty - slim chance of that though, looking at his thunderous face.

"Well being as you take such an eager interest you must also have noticed that he dresses like a big girls' blouse" He growls. "So maybe you can lend him one of yours to wear."

"Alright, pack it in Damon. Don't be like that."

"Don't be like what Brett?"  
And suddenly he's up on his feet, rounding on Brett who stands leaning back against the sink.

"Don't be such an arse." He responds flatly and folds his arms firmly across his chest, unblinking.

Oh shit. It really is too early in the morning for this.  
I have the horrible feeling they're about to come to blows, and there'll be cereal and several teeth flying and I am somehow to blame. I'm usually far more reserved, but I got involved when I should've kept my mouth shut and been more sensitive towards Damon's feelings.

"An arse? I'm being an arse am I?"  
I can barely watch as Damon takes a step closer and begins poking him in the shoulder in what looks like an extremely irritating manner.

"Don't do that." Brett says, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Or what? C'mon..."  
In temper he pushes Brett, his shoulders sway back slightly but he doesn't budge.  
"I'll show you what being an arse is, wanker!"

"Actually this is a convincing enough example, you sad fucker!"  
He swipes Damon's hand away and pushes him back. He wobbles slightly and they glare back at each other. Teeth bared, lips curled like snarling dogs.

At that Jarvis stands and purposefully positions himself between the fractious pair.  
"Alright that's enough you two." He places a firm hand on Damon's shoulder and steers him back towards the table. "Christ, did you get out of the wrong side of bed today or what?"

Damon resumes his seat, but isn't able to resist one last scathing remark. "Nowt wrong with me mate. Brett's just pissed off that he has to borrow clothes off his sister these days."

Closing the fridge door unnecessarily hard, Brett calmly takes a sip of juice, before delivering the mother of all come-backs.  
"Yeah, well at least her taste in clothing is far classier than anything Justine might have to offer."

He didn't? Oh my God he did.  
Brett just brought their ex into this row. If this was the Jerry Springer show someone would surely be offering Damon some ice now for that burn.

The blood pressure collectedly rises in the room, and I half expect some tumbleweed to roll by like in a comedy sketch. 

My eyes slide to look at my somewhat winded looking boyfriend, who has turned a startling shade of puce. 

"And what would you know about class?" He manages to retort after a lengthy pause.

Now, at the risk of sounding like I've become the founding member of the Brett fan club (I make a quick mental note to find out if there is one) Brett is incidentally looking über cool today in a black suit jacket/white t.shirt combo. Compared to Damon's uniform of baggy denims and sports brand t.shirts, out of the two I'm inclined to rule in favour of Brett if I had to pick the snazziest dresser.

But as if realising that he can't exactly pour scorn on Brett's regular day-to-day dress sense, he makes what I presume to be a weak attempt at mocking his jewellery, of all things.

"You and your nancy boy earrings and cheap shitty necklaces. Especially that one you've got on now. Cheap and tacky, and it suits you." He throws Brett a pitying look, and to my confusion and surprise Brett suddenly slams his glass down on the counter, spilling Orange everywhere, and storms out.

I have absolutely no idea what is happening. I wouldn't have thought for one moment that Damon's immature taunts would have such an impact. This is nothing short of playground bullying, they're worse than a couple of disagreeable kids.  
I look towards the open door, torn between my desire to follow Brett and my loyalty to Damon.

As it so happens, what Damon says next makes the decision so much easier for me.

"Aren't you gonna go after him, seeing as you care so much?"

"Scuse me?"

Damon is facing me, sucking in his cheeks and looking angrier than ever.  
"I'm just making an observation, as Brett would say." He spits.

"Sorry Damon, but I think you're overreacting a bit." I reply politely, though I don't think much of his tone.

"Am I? Well I'm sorry, I just don't like my girlfriend fawning all over my housemate."

I am inches away from losing my temper. Admittedly I never expected him to accuse me of simpering at Brett, but what makes it so much worse is knowing the circumstances surrounding Brett's ex girlfriend.  
The one Damon stole.  
He is an enormous hypocrite.

"What?" My hands involuntarily go to my hair and I tug on it in frustration. "What is your problem?"

He leans back in his seat, and there's a visible cruelness in the lines around his mouth, the tightness of his jaw and the narrowing of those big baby-blue eyes.  
"He is. He's the fuckin' problem. He obviously fancies you and you're blatantly flirting with him right in front of me."  
He says this slightly too ferociously, eliciting a 'steady on' from Jarvis.

"You mean like you did with Justine?" I grind the words out, and shoot him a look that could strip paint. "The difference is I'm not like her, I don't cheat. Yes I like Brett and I like his music, what would you rather me do? Hate him just because you're in a different band? Do you want me to cull him because you slept with his girlfriend and now he's being nice to me?"

Damon stares at me askance, looking suitably horrified. He looks as if I've just slapped him in the face.

"For God's sake just grow up!" I yell like a maniac. And I run from the room.

 

Well, that was magnificently handled wasn't it?  
Well done Sam. Bravo. Now what?  
Oh hell, how embarrassing.  
I accuse Damon of overreacting and then flip out like a schizo.

The front door is open and I find Brett sitting outside on one of the steps, smoking a cigarette. Seemingly indifferent to the drizzling rain that's going to leave a wet patch on his bum, he appears to be lost in his thoughts. His slim fingers absentmindedly twirling the long, thin gold chain that hangs loosely around his neck.

I suck in a huge breath to calm myself. "You okay?" I ask cautiously.

He shifts awkwardly as if he's only just noticed I'm there, but doesn't say anything.

"You shouldn't let him wind you up so much." I tell him, even though this makes me an enormous hypocrite too.

He looks up at me, I meet his eyes for a second and then have to look away because - without meaning to sound glib - the look in them causes a deep ache within the cavity of my chest.  
They're so mournful and tinged with uninhibited sorrow.

"This was my mum's.." He says quietly, continuing to fiddle with the necklace. "..I wear it to feel close to her. It's like my lucky charm. D'ya think that's daft?"

Not knowing what else to do, I sit down beside him to admire the chain, which I notice on closer inspection is set sparsely with a few tiny green and blue stones.

"It's beautiful, and no I don't think it's daft. It's lovely." 

He smiles gently and then produces a crumpled packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes from his jacket pocket.  
I take one gratefully and allow him to light it for me, all the while having to resist the urge to just hug him.

We sit companionably and I listen as he talks about his mother.  
He tells me how she encouraged him to be creative, and taught him about art and history and music. He tells me how she became seriously ill and passed away a few years ago, and how his sister, seeing him so deeply affected by the tragedy, has attempted to compensate for the loss by fussing over him like a surrogate mother-figure.

By the time he's finished there are tears in my eyes, a lump has formed in my throat and I practically have to sit on my hands to keep myself from hugging him. Wanting desperately to hold him and somehow make everything alright.  
But I can't.  I know I'm incapable of making everything right again, all I can do is sit blinking away tears as he sniffs loudly and hastily wipes his face on the back of his sleeve.

I feel privileged that he's chosen to open up to me like this, but I'm even more angry at Damon now for having hit such a raw nerve. Inadvertently yes, but him and his big mouth and insensitive remarks is what led to all this unnecessary grief in the first place.

"I'm really sorry about Damon." I say weakly, flicking my cigarette butt into the gutter where it rolls along and joins Brett's.

Brett sighs and runs his hands through his hair.  
"Don't be. Why should you apologise for something that isn't your fault?"  
He has really beautiful eyes and he's looking at me all softly and sadly. 

"Well if it wasn't for me then he wouldn't have started on you this morning." I protest.

"Nah. He doesn't need a reason to give me shit, believe me. We're always at each other's throats. And I give as good as I get."

"Yes but he seems to think we were flirting." I say, and try and give a casual laugh. "And that we, you know? That we...fancy each other or something."  
My voice fades away as his eyes meld with mine.

"Oh. Does he? Well I thought he might get a bit suspicious about us spending time together, that's why I never mentioned it to anyone."  
He sounds much more Southern than he did a few minutes ago, as if it's not just the air around us that's thickened, it's his voice too.  
And how the heck can the air feel so heavy out here? We're not even inside, but that strange tension is back with a vengeance.

"He needs to understand that we're just friends, nothing more." I lie grossly. "It's as simple as that."

"I wouldn't wanna get in the way and cause any aggro between the two of you though."

"You're not getting in the way."  
Time seems to be of the essence, but my chronic hangover means I can't think of a delicate way of phrasing what I need to say.  
"I like you. I mean, I like spending time with you. So I won't let Damon spoil it. I forget about everything, and have the best time with you. You make me laugh and....I really like you, you know, as a friend."

'I want you. I want you. Not just as a friend. I want more. Much more.'  
Is what I want to say, but I don't. For obvious reasons. I think I've gone mad. I can't want him.  
And I wish he wouldn't give me those looks - they make me die.

He fires a dazzling smile straight into my eyes, and it does strange things to my stomach.  
"And I really, really like you as well."

I gulp, blinking through the dazzle.  
I notice that at some point my taxi has turned up. Brett is like bloody Doctor Who, when I'm with him and it's just the two of us it's like time no longer matters and everyone else ceases to exist.

He opens the rear door of the black cab for me and I climb aboard as elegantly as I possibly can. Still feeling the need to show him some form of affection, I pat him awkwardly on the arm as if he's a distant relative I'm meeting for the first time.

"So if you're still up for goin' Highgate some time, I can give you a call as soon as I get a day off?" He asks through the open window.

I beam at him. "Sounds good. I'm looking forward to that...oh, and good luck for tonight. Whatever you decide to sing. I'm sure it'll be great."

"Thanks Sammy. Will you, er.....will you be watching?"

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world." I have to shout now in order to be heard over the loudness of the diesel engine rumbling to life. "Make sure you wear something outrageous, and your mum's necklace. Don't take it off. Not that you'll need the luck, but...she'll be right there then, with you."

This elicits a wan smile from Brett as the taxi pulls away from the kerb, and I sit watching him as he watches the cab, until he's no longer in view.

 

**********************

 

When I get in I take my insulin, have a bath and then crawl into my bed.  
My head is pounding, as though a giant fist has got hold of my head and is squeezing. I'm still feeling all churned up inside, and this just adds to the nausea.

I sleep for the rest of the day and it's late evening by the time I emerge from my pit. Thankfully feeling much better.

"Where's dad?" I ask Jane when I see her.

She's been out shopping up West with a friend to 'cheer herself up' and distract her from the woes of my dad's business going down the pan.  
I didn't realise things had gotten so bad, but it seems that his reluctance to sell anything other than 1950's - 1970's Rock music in any other format than vinyl is really taking its toll on the shops profits.

"He's still at the shop. He's opening late in the hopes of attracting more customers. Late night shoppers he says."  
She sighs and smooths down her chestnut curls which have collapsed as a result of the unrelenting rainfall outside.  
"I don't know what we're going to do. I really don't. He's so stubborn. He needs to get with the times. That's his problem, he's stuck in the past."

She's made dinner, and informs me that it's in the microwave waiting to be reheated.  
A few minutes later I sit down to a rather dried-up and unappetising looking bowl of pasta bake, but I'm so hungry and my blood sugar is now borderline low, so I'd happily eat the tablecloth if it contained carbs.

As I sit chewing my way through the rubbery pasta shells, I mull over everything in my mind.  
Perhaps I'll visit dad's shop, check it out for myself and try and talk him around. Maybe with a bit of persuasion he'd be open to stocking something other than vinyl, and even different genres of music.  
Still, I won't hold my breath, but if I don't try then I'll never know.

After Brett's heartfelt words of wisdom this morning, about never taking family for granted, I suddenly feel obliged to do something to help my father's failing business. And who knows, maybe I could ask Brett for some advice. He works in the music industry, he might be able to come up with a few helpful suggestions.

It is then that I remember Brett's TV appearance, and abandon my half-eaten meal in order to search for a video so I can record the show. Well, probably not all of the show, but Suede's performance at least.  
I fiddle with the VCR, for several minutes, growing increasingly frustrated when it won't do what I need it to, until at last we reach a compromise. The compromise being, it will record the right channel when I hit the record button, and then I won't have to resort to digging out its innards with a screwdriver.  
I think we understand each other.

 

At 9:00pm I switch on the TV and turn to channel 4, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the set - I don't trust the remote to work on the VCR, and if I sit on the sofa I might not make it in time to press record.  
I explain this to Jane, who listens patiently and doesn't question my reasoning for once, which makes a nice change.  
I do however notice her dubious look, which I choose to ignore.

And then, approximately fifteen minutes into the programme, just as I'm losing all will to live, suddenly the band is announced as a 'world exclusive' no less.  
Oh dear. Damon won't like that at all. Not one bit.  
I hit record giddily, barely able to contain my excitement.  
The camera pans across to where the band are set up, and the soft strumming of a guitar, the opening chords  of 'Brass in Pocket' emanates from the crappy old television speakers.

I clasp a slightly trembling hand to my mouth. Fleetingly wondering if I'm still asleep and dreaming.  
Brett looks eye-catchingly spectacular in a white, skinny top which is most definitely not his. It doesn't fit properly, it rides up his toned belly, and the sleeves look like three-quarter length on his long arms.  
How perfectly attention-grabbing and outrageous.  
I also notice with a measured amount of satisfaction, that he's still wearing the chain proudly around his neck for all to see, and I'm not quite prepared for the unexpected rush of emotion I feel.

The entire performance is like a roller coaster for me.  
Having seen him perform live, I can tell that he's extremely nervous, and it shows. His voice isn't as strong, tuneful or confident as I know it can be, I hear it break once or twice as he hits the unfamiliar notes, and I feel incredibly nervous for him. Even my mouth has gone dry, so God knows what his must feel like.  
His body language is awkward, his stage presence less commanding and he even tugs self consciously at his top a couple of times, like he's now regretting his choice of clothing.

But none of that matters, the audience seem to be enjoying it, and as he grows steadily more self-assured his vocals become louder and he looks directly into the camera instead of avoiding the lens.  
For a bizarre moment I actually feel as if he's looking straight at me, holding my gaze as he begs for attention, promising to make me see there's nobody else here, no one like.....him.

I can't believe he's actually singing this, singing the song that I suggested. And now I feel my heart practically bursting with pride, as if I've somehow played a small part in making television history, but it's more than that.  
It's the fact that he's listened to me, and taken my suggestion on board and actually gone ahead and done it.

Admittedly the band don't sound completely at ease playing it, hardly surprising considering they've had little time to practice and familiarise themselves with the chords et cetera, let alone perfect it. And yet it is still blindingly good, and as they finish, they receive an enthusiastic round of applause.

"So...."  
I hear Jane's voice in the background, and notice that I've been sat spellbound throughout the entire song. Hand still over my mouth as if suppressing a squeal.  
"....is there anything you might want to talk about?" She asks.

"Like what?" I croak.

She shoots me a knowing look. "Like how you feel about him really?"

I swallow.  
Have I become completely transparent? She shouldn't be able to read me like a book, I mean for heavens' sake she even seemed to know how I felt about Brett before I did.

What is happening to me? Why do I feel this way about Brett?  
I should've been happy with Damon, I should've been content, but no. Now I've blown my chances with him because of some silly flirtation with Brett.  
Brett who initially annoyed me, Brett who irritated me and who made me feel.....just how did he make me feel?

It should've been a difficult question to answer but it isn't.  
He makes me feel alive. And carefree. He makes me feel flirtatious and more confident. He makes my mundane life somehow more exciting and happy. But most of all he makes me feel wanted. Cared about. As if my opinions matter. As if I matter.

As if I'm not just a girl.....


	10. Torn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N  
> Apologies for the long delay in updating, thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy this emotional roller-coaster of a chapter - I've made it longer to compensate for my lateness in posting!
> 
> Also, just want to give a big shout-out to Olivia, Violetdreams, Ali and Barmy About Brett. Thank you so much for your encouragement and support. You guys rock!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and please let me know what you think xD
> 
> +++++++++++++++++

In hindsight, I'm beginning to think that honesty isn't always the best policy. That phrase in itself is very misleading, because sometimes telling white lies are essential in order to not hurt someone's feelings. 

Such as when a woman asks "Do these trousers make my bum look big?" Whilst we want and appreciate gentle honesty, nobody likes it when the response is "Yes, and the trousers aren't the problem, it's your arse that's fat."  
Okay, so maybe that's more a question of tact, but when it comes to being honest, I've come to realise that sometimes 'hiding the truth' is a better way to go.

When Jane asked me the million dollar question, "So, how do you feel about Brett?" And urged me to be honest, I should've just rolled my eyes and said something like, "Well, you know....he's tolerable enough in small doses." I should've trusted my instincts and gabbled excuses to leave the room, or subtly changed the subject, but no....instead I had to go and open my big fat mouth and talk about my feelings.  
Ugh.

It's been a few days since that cripplingly embarrassing conversation, and now I'm starting to wish that I'd kept my muddled-up thoughts to myself.  
Firstly, it's almost as if that by me voicing how Brett makes me feel, it has made it a thing now. It's made it more real. I've been forced to face up to the very real possibility that I might actually fancy the pants off him. 

I was more than happy wallowing in denial, content to keep dismissing what I've probably known right from the start. The inexplicable attraction that I felt, from the first time he spoke to me and bought me a glass of Coke, and then caused my ovaries to explode with his powerful, sexual showmanship on stage.

But Jane was right when she surmised that he inadvertently intimidates me. He's six years older, he's articulate, intelligent, and artistic whilst simultaneously having a certain edginess.  
Despite his über cool outward appearance, there is the distinct sense of the untamed about him. 

Aside from being impossibly good looking and charismatic, there's this potentially dark and mysterious, wild aura just barely suppressed below the surface.  
And well, he's everything I'm not used to.  
Which terrifies me.  
I've just never met or seen anyone quite like him before, and I don't know how to handle that.

Unbelievably, my stepmother in all her infinite wisdom has advised -and encouraged - me to just run with it, run with it as far as I can go, and just see where I end up.

 

Well, that's easy for her to say. I'm the one feeling like my mind is a tangled mess of twisted knots.

 

To occupy myself and hopefully maybe help my dad out somehow, I've been spending a few hours each day at the shop.  
It kind of serves as a bit of a distraction, even though the place is in dire need of a revamp and is about as exciting as a morgue, with barely any customers venturing inside.  
Those who are morbidly curious enough to brave the painfully out-dated, poky little interior often leave without purchasing anything. Hardly surprising once they realise that as music shops go, the deceptively named 'Raucous Records' has very little to offer.

So, needless to say, the whole Brett situation is still very much never far from my thoughts. And thanks to Jane, now seems to be gnawing away at my insides like butterflies that bite.

 

A few days pass and I hear nothing, nada, not a peep from either Brett or (less unsurprisingly) Damon.  
I really don't expect to hear from him after my little outburst in his kitchen, and whilst I do feel bad about it now, I'm not sure how bothered I am about having fucked it up between us, that is even if I'm bothered at all.

Brett's silence, on the other hand, is bothering me. Which is stupid. It shouldn't bother me, he's super-busy and I'm not exactly a priority. 

Still, it's been four days since Suede's appearance on TV, and I'm absolutely dying to talk to him about it. And I miss him. Which is really really really really bad. I should not be missing him,  
I've only known him five minutes, it's only been a few days since I last saw him, and....he's not mine to miss.

 

As it happens, it would seem that Brett and Damon are like a couple of buses. You wait around forever and there's no sign of one, and then when one shows up the other always seems to come along at the same bloody time.

 

My dad and me literally just walk through the door, after having been at the shop all day, when the telephone rings.  
My dad answers, and seems a little on-edge as he informs me that it's for me, and even hovers around for the duration of the call.  
Which isn't very long.

A part of me gets all giddy, my limbs seemed to buzz with excitement as I took the receiver from him, but to my amazement, it's actually Damon. Not Brett.

He's ringing to apologise, and I almost pass out with shock when he insists on taking me out to dinner, to 'clear things up.'

Well, why not? It can't do any harm surely. So even if it goes against my better judgement, I decide to let him take me out for a curry.  
Yes - even though I'm not exactly a curry fan.  
But this is me growing up. Or rather being grown up, about the whole situation. 

 

Then, lo and behold, no sooner have I hung up the phone, when five minutes later I find myself talking to Brett.

This conversation is decidedly more awkward now - well for me at least - as he's oblivious to my newfound feelings and inner turmoil.  
He chats away easily, asking how I am (if only he knew) and he's all apologetic for not having been able to organise our day out to Highgate yet, and all the while I'm trying not to melt on the inside just at the mere sound of his voice.

Shit. Have I really got it that bad?

I assure him it's fine, and somehow manage to ask him if he could offer any advice in relation to helping my dad attract more customers to the shop.

"I dunno...um....I'd probably have to take a look at the place, you know, have a look around and see what it's like. As soon as I'm free I'll take a look in, alright? Scouts honour!" He promises me.

The man is too adorable, I swear he'll be the death of me.

 

**************************

 

Okay, so being too polite by agreeing to a curry when I'm not overly keen on it might seem like apathy, but I'm trying to see things from a different perspective.  
I need to be open to trying new things. That's what adulting is all about.  
How am I ever going to become sophisticated and more womanly if I don't act it?

 

So, this is how I find myself sat across from Damon in the 'Bengal Dynasty' restaurant, in London's famous Brick Lane.  
Willing to give him - and curry - another chance.

He wants to explain himself and talk honestly about the whole rivalry/love triangle thing, and I am all ears.  
I want to know. Every little detail.  
Call it morbid curiosity, but for some reason I find myself wanting, needing, to know all about this Justine, and how on earth she managed to bag herself the two most attractive and fascinating men I've ever met in my life.

She must be something else. My mind's eye is flooded with imagery of a Goddess. An Amazonian. An enchantress. A beguiling beauty. How else could she have both men, at some time or another, wound around her little finger? And caused such a rift, such animosity?  
It's mind-boggling.

 

After taking the tube from Southwark underground station, I meet Damon in central London, and Half an hour later we're sitting cosily in the fuzzy, flocked haze of the curry house. A humongous pile of poppadoms rising between us.

Now there is lots of cuisine on offer around here, but with over fifty curry restaurants, the London guide books tell me it would be almost a crime to visit Brick lane without sampling some curry. Especially given the smell of spices wafting down the street until the early hours.  
So, I go with Damon on this. Despite my dislike of India's most world-renown dish. Call me a mardy cow but I don't get pleasure from eating something that's painful. My idea of an enjoyable meal doesn't result in feeling as if I've swallowed hot lava.

 

Not having the foggiest idea about curries, I gladly let Damon order for us, feebly informing him that I can't handle anything too spicy.  
Small talk ensues, mostly concerning the somewhat sore subject of Blur's latest album. 

As it turns out, after recording only four songs at the Church studio, Damon and Andy the producer could no longer agree on the sound or style of the songs, so both parties agreed that it would be best to part ways.  
So at present the band are without a producer and a studio. Which is obviously hindering the process of getting the album released.

The waiter arrives with an absolute mountain of food, and Damon breaks off from his rant to point out what everything is....'onion bhajis, pilau rice, chicken tikka masala, spicy potatoes, a king prawn curry, and a bottle of Turrunyo Carmenere.'

I've listened sympathetically as he bemoaned the difficulties of compromising when it comes to creativity within the music industry, and knowing how he can ramble on for hours once he's started, I leap on the opportunity to steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go.  
Namely, Justine-wards.  
Though admittedly I do this in a rather heavy-handed manner, and worryingly remind myself of my dad with his lack of tact.

"So, um...this minor set-back you're having with the album...does that mean Suede's will be finished first?" I ask breezily, before hastily adding. "It's not a competition though, right? Because you've already released an album, Suede are yet to do that. So technically Blur are already ahead."

Damon looks immediately irritated, but I choose to ignore it.

"No it's not a competition. If it were, we've already won. It's just...well.." His voice fades away as he stares into the middle-distance.

"Do you feel you have something to prove because Brett is Justine's ex?" I interject boldly. Seemingly all out of patience. But I just want to get to the bottom of....well, everything.

"I don't have anything to prove." He says unhelpfully, dipping the corner of a poppadom into some coriander dip and crunching on it loudly, which I find inexplicably annoying. 

"Then what's with all the rivalry? I don't understand. Didn't she choose you over Brett? Which means you won again. So Brett and his band should be no threat to you."

"Look, near enough every song on their album was inspired by me and Justine." He says, sounding all indignant, as if he believes he's entitled to royalties or at the very least, have Suede's forthcoming album accredited to him.  
"He's nothing more than a bitter ex-boyfriend, out for revenge."

I stare at him askance. "What makes you think he's the vengeful type? Just because his life experiences inspire his song writing, isn't that normal? It's not like he's publicly naming and shaming you both-"

"It's how he is with you."

I fall silent, my hands grasping at the napkin that's in front of me.

"He's trying to come between us. And it's working, isn't it? He's wormed his way in with all his false flattery and charm."

"No. He's just been nice to me that's all. Why do you think he has some sinister plan to get back at you?"

"Oh come on." He leans back in the chair, onion bhaji in hand, and looks at me like I'm a half-wit. As if the idea of Brett using me as a pawn in some twisted game has never dawned on me before. Except he doesn't know that it has. And him reaffirming my earlier suspicions, makes me lose my appetite entirely.  
"It's easy to see that he's trying to take you off me."

"You mean like you took Justine off him?" I state, twisting the napkin between my fingers tightly as Damon nods his head sheepishly.

Dear God, here's me trying to be an adult. Trying to be more mature because my new acquaintances are in their early twenties, yet here we are talking about relationships like kids in a playground. 

Even the words "take you off me" sound so utterly childish and petty. It makes me sound like nothing more than a thing. A toy.  
And Damon's mentality of "well I stole his toy, now he's stealing mine." is absolutely ludicrous. Pathetic even, and so bloody immature. 

Taking a sip of the vinegary wine for courage, I brace myself. "Justine must've meant an awful lot to Brett, for him to want to seek revenge on you. And you must've fallen in love with her, right? To break up their relationship, it must have been something special. So how come you're not with her now?"

Shifting uneasily in his seat, Damon takes a deep swig from his wine glass. "Justine fell in love with me. It just happened. There was this instant spark, like a chemistry between us, you know? It was intense and felt like if we didn't explore it further, we'd both go mad or be wondering about it for the rest of our lives."

My mouth goes dry, and I distract myself by spearing a prawn with my fork.  
If someone had spoke to me of instant sparks and chemistry a week or so ago, then I'd have been blissfully ignorant.  
I'd have shrugged my shoulders hopelessly, having nothing to compare it to other than the drivel I've seen portrayed in the films. 

But now everything's different. Everything is new.  
Alarmingly, I think I can actually understand and relate to what he's saying, because I'm experiencing it for myself. Heaven help me.

"So how come it didn't last?"

"What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" He laughs dryly, and I rather want to throw my fork at him.  
"Things just didn't work out, that's all. Although I think she felt guilty for ending it with Brett, he didn't exactly make things easy for us."

"Well can you blame him? He's hardly going to give you his blessing is he?"

Honestly, what did he expect? For Brett to give him a slap on the back and say 'nice one mate.' 

"Listen you don't know what he can be like. He might be all sweetness and light around you, but Justine told me he was no joy to live with, his moods were all over the place. He can be a moody bastard." 

I think about this for a moment, as a sudden unwanted image of Brett materialises in my mind. To me he looks naughty but nice. More naughty than nice actually - almost surly....until he smiles. 

Giving up on my food now, I push my plate away. "I know I haven't known him as long as you, or Justine for that matter, but why are you so convinced that he's just putting on an act to win me over? Can't it just be him being nice? Has it not occurred to you that he might just perhaps enjoy my company and like me as a friend?"

"No." He answers flatly in a patient but bored voice, without any hesitation, and the word stings me like I've just been physically slapped.

Wow. Don't hold back Damon. I think sourly.  
So I'm really that unlikable? He can't possibly genuinely like me, that is what he's basically saying.  
And why should I believe him? Because he knows him better than I do, and therefore knows him well enough to suspect he has ulterior motives for befriending me.

Which is exactly what I was afraid of.

"He's not over Justine." Damon continues, twisting the knife inside of me a little bit more. "He's narked at me, he blames me for ruining his relationship, even though Justine fell out of love with him long ago. And when you arrived on the scene, he saw you as a way to get his own back."

I take a huge gulp of wine even though I don't really like it, I'm grateful for it. I need the alcohol to take the edge off.

"It's childish I know." 

"Mm." Is all I can manage. Childish is putting it lightly. Right now I want nothing more than to knock his and Brett's head together for their immaturity.

"He's actually quite an antisocial person, bit of a stuck-up prat actually. He thinks he's all that with his poncy degree, looking down his bent-nose at everybody." 

Damon has a really unpleasant streak, I must say. I throw him a dirty look, which he ignores.

"Brett just doesn't go around making friends easily like that, believe me. You can ask anyone. So him being nice to you is all tactical. He wants to goad me and gain a reaction."

"Which worked." 

Damon actually blushes slightly at this, and looks more than a tad embarrassed. "Yeah, I was an idiot. I shouldn't rise to it, and I'm sorry for going on like I did. I was out of order."

He reaches across the table and places a cool, reassuring hand on mine. 

"If you can forgive me, I'd like to forget about the whole sorry lot and move on. We can't let him win, why should he ruin what could potentially be a really good thing Sam?"

Why should he win?  
Funny how the conversation has reverted back to everything seeming like a competition. But this isn't a game, and as much as I like Damon - and Brett, obviously - I have no desire to be a consolation prize. A substitute for Justine the temptress.

"Um, how about we just take each day as it comes, and see what happens?"  
I scrape my chair back, down the last dregs of my wine, then beat a hasty retreat to the loo.

When I return he is leaning back in his chair, chatting to a couple of women at the table behind ours.  
They're doing that eyelash-batting, giggly thing that women do when they fancy a man.

"See 'ya then." He tells the pair before turning his back on them.  
"So, where were we?" He asks me, leaning across the table.  
He inclines his head, and I reel back slightly. His breath is pure alcohol. One flick of a lighter and...

"The bill?" I suggest, hastily.

I'm feeling quite crappy, having somehow forgotten to take my insulin before I left. But it isn't just that.  
All I want to do is go home, back to the friendly, familiar sanctuary of my box room, and crawl under my duvet and hibernate for ever.

 

********************************

 

The following day I have plenty of time to mull over the previous evenings' conversation, when my dad leaves me holding fort at the shop whilst he nips to the bank.

I still have so many questions, more in fact, than before.  
My head is completely all over the place, and seems to be continuously at war with my heart....no wait, it can't be my heart.  
My heart has no place in this, I must be confusing it with my gut. 

Yes that's right, my gut instinct, or something. The heart is where you feel love, and your gut is supposed to be intuition...well, that's also where your stomach and intestines are. So similarly to when you think what you feel is love, it's most probably the same as what it is in your intestines - shit.

 

I'm sitting behind the counter, glancing at a crumpled, dog-eared copy of Record Collector magazine when the unfamiliar sound of the door opening makes my head snap up, and I almost fall off my stool with shock. 

"What'cha." Brett announces his arrival as he wafts in, eyes of clearest blue immediately darting around the cramped confines of the shop. Taking in the rows of records, stacked in their yellowing or foxed covers.  
"This isn't that bad." He states cheerily.

"We haven't sold one record in all the while I've been coming here." I tell him dismally, whilst self-consciously tucking strands of my messy hair, which is in much need of a wash, behind my ears. 

His dark, low-arched eyebrows shoot up animatedly.  
"Oh." He draws the word out "That is quite bad."  
He is trying to look solemn and sympathetic but it isn't working. I know he wants to laugh.  
"I wouldn't have thought you'd scare the customers away that easily, although you do look painfully miserable I must say. Face like a wet-weekend."

"Bugger off! Cheeky sod!"  
He duly receives an obligatory thwack on the head with the rolled-up copy of Record Collector, which he accepts, pulling a comically pained face for added effect.  
"You'd look miserable if you were stuck in this morgue all day. What are you doing here anyway? Is it your day off from being a rockstar?"

"Somethin' like that yeah." He leans down, folding his arms on the counter and looks up at me, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his perfectly kissable mouth. "I had plans for global domination but I slept in so, had to cancel."

I smile back at him dreamily, and feel my stomach begin to do an alarmingly familiar yo-yo of lust.  
Oh Lord.

"Actually we've managed to finish-up early at the studio, which is just down the road there in Kilburn, so I thought I'd call in whilst I had the chance." 

"Thank you. I really appreciate it. Do you think there's any hope for this place? It could certainly use a revamp, but it's the stock. It's so outdated."

He moves efficiently now towards the shelves, and thumbs through a few of the records. Forehead scrunched in concentration.  
"Hm. Yeah, I see what you mean. A lot of this stuff is retro and valuable to the right buyer, but it only applies to a specific audience. If your dad wants to attract more customers he's going to have to branch-out, rather than just catering solely for collectors and fans of old-school rock."

He really isn't just a pretty face.

"I don't know how I am ever going to convince him to do that." I sigh.

Then with impressive timing, I hear the distinctive rumble of my dad's Triumph Tiger motorbike pulling up outside.  
The noise immediately draws Brett's attention away from the vinyl, and he's soon peering through the glass in the door.

"Speak of the devil."  
I wander over and join him by the door.  
Sweet Jesus, he always smells good. The spicy scent of his aftershave is a stark contrast to the stale, musty stench of our dusty surroundings.

"Is that your dad's bike?" 

"No he stole it." I quip, not bothering to hide how amusing I find my own sarcasm.  
What makes it even more satisfying is when Brett actually laughs.  
I find the sight of a hot guy laughing very attractive, especially when I'm the one responsible for it. 

"Alright snarky." He sniggers, and bumps his shoulder playfully into mine.

Oh. Dear. God.

Why do I suddenly feel like I've been clubbed over the head by lust? It's terrifying and overwhelming, and I'm almost relieved when he moves away from the door so that my dad can enter.  
I follow his lead but to my horror I'm blushing crimson by the time my dad has joined us inside.

"Everything alright?" My father asks me, with a measured amount of scepticism.

"Y-yes. Fine. Why wouldn't it be?" 

I chance a quick look at Brett, who appears to nervously run a large hand over his hair in an attempt to smooth down any long, unruly strands. He catches me looking at him, and winks. I see my dad follow my eye line. He stares at Brett for an awkward moment and then back at me expectantly.

"Oh, dad this is Brett. He's um, he's a friend of mine...Brett this is my dad, Alan." 

Brett smiles warmly and sticks his hand out. He opens his mouth to say something but my dad cuts in abruptly before he can barely draw breath.

"I know who you are." He remarks ominously, and grasping his hand a little too tight, begins shaking it vigorously.

Brett doesn't flinch, instead choosing to match the strong handshake with a firm grip of his own. "Oh? I wouldn't believe everything you might've read in the papers." He chances a wry smile.

"Ay?" My dad looks unsurprisingly mystified, and I quickly jump in.

"Brett's pretty much famous, dad."

"I wish you wouldn't keep saying that Sammy." Brett says, looking embarrassed. "I'm hardly Prince."

"No, thank God." 

He rolls his eyes at me, but I notice then that my dad still has his hand clasped in an iron-like grip and I'm worried that he might actually pop his shoulder out if he carries on.

"Well his band is the next big thing anyway....er, you can let go of him now dad."

"Hmpf. All this modern rubbish sounds the bloody same to me." My dad grumbles, sounding like the grumpiest old geezer in the world probably, seemingly unable to muster even an ounce of civility.

Still, at least he's released Brett's hand before cutting off his circulation. I notice him glance down at it, as if making sure that it's still attached to his wrist. I shoot him a sympathetic look, and he responds with a reassuring, understanding smile.

"Nice bike you've got there Mr Lewis." He says unexpectedly.

My dad eyes him suspiciously before responding. "Just Alan will do."

"Right, sorry. Alan. Tiger Trail, isn't it?"

My dad nods, and I can see his stern expression wavering slightly.

"750?"

"Yeah, that's right." My father sounds pleasantly surprised now. "You know a bit about bikes then?"

"Not much to be honest." Brett admits reluctantly. "I had a Yamaha GT50, nothing special." He says this modestly, pretending it's irrelevant. 

Holy shit.  
So on top of everything else, he is also a biker of sorts. I swear my ovaries can't take much more, especially as I'm now picturing him in snug fitting, head-to-toe black leather.

"Oh. So you can ride?"

I'll bet he can. I think lewdly, and then blush at my own inappropriate thoughts. What is happening to me? I'm turning into a complete perv.

"Funny, you don't seem the sort." My dad is rudely saying now, though Brett's cunning ploy to gain favour with him has undoubtedly worked.  
"With a name like Brett, wouldn't you be more at home on a surf board?" 

"Dad! You've been watching Neighbours again haven't you?" I say hurriedly, hoping that Brett is at least vaguely familiar with the Australian soap opera.

"Actually my mum used to watch The Persuaders." Brett explains patiently with a soft smile. "She named me after the main character, Lord Brett Sinclair."

A sudden look of recognition crosses my dads face, and he now actually cracks a smile. "Roger Moore's character? Of course!" 

It would seem that by the weirdest twist of fate, Brett's name has now earned him dad's full approval. My dad is the biggest Roger Moore fan, and I thank the universe for Brett's mum having been the one who named him, and not his father. I can only imagine what my dad's reaction would be like, if instead I'd had to introduce Brett as 'Wolfgang'. 

 

After a few more minutes of Roger Moore related chit-chat, my dad settles himself back behind his beloved counter, taking his usual spot, and Brett asks me if I'd fancy taking a walk down to Camden Lock. Despite the weatherman having forecast rain, it's surprisingly sunny outside, and the opportunity to spend some time with Brett is just too rare a thing to pass up.

He's got a couple of things he needs to do first, he tells me, but as long as I don't mind tagging along, and even though there's not enough time to go to Highgate, he thinks we might as well make the most of things whilst he's got some free time.

Naturally, I agree. And after checking with my dad that he's fine with me taking the rest of the afternoon off, Brett and I head off into the town.

 

Our first stop, is at a small branch of Boots chemists, whereupon he insists on me waiting outside.  
Intrigued, and most definitely disgruntled, I finally agree to his unreasonable demand.

Cheeky sod.

I pace up and down for a while, grumbling to myself about this unfair treatment, but when he at last joins me again outside, and all is revealed, he is immediately forgiven.

"Here ya' go." He pulls from the small carrier bag what looks like a disposable camera. "I know it's far from adequate but it's the best I can do I'm afraid, at such short notice. At least you'll be able to take a few pictures, get a bit of practice in for your photography course."

I take the camera from him gratefully with trembling fingers, and I'm honestly lost for words. So deeply touched by his sweet gesture I think I might actually cry. 

"Brett, I don't know what to say....thank you!" 

Oh, God, I want to hug him. Being near him without breaching that physical barrier is so hard. Wanting to touch, wanting it so bad but being unable to...  
Without anymore deliberation or hesitation, I can't help but wrap my arms around him and squeeze.

"It's only a cheap-throwaway camera." He laughs, returning my embrace. "It's all they had."

"It's perfect." I sigh, revelling in the sensation of his strong arms enfolding me tightly.

You're perfect. Is what I want to say.

The clean softness of his scent envelops me. I can feel the tautness of his chest beneath his black shirt, and I close my eyes. The waves of attraction thud along my arms, down through my stomach via my chest, and straight into my knickers.

Holy, holy shit.

I don't want the hug to end, but it has to when we're forced apart by a perplexed looking woman who wants to get into the shop, and we've unwittingly been blocking the entrance.

I feel weightless, and almost lightheaded as we make our way down towards the lock.

"D'ya fancy a cup of tea?" Brett asks.

I fancy you.

"I've just got to meet Justine down by the lock, she's still got my dictaphone and I need it back. So she's gonna meet me on her way back from the market."

Wait. What?

He says it so airily, like this sudden information is nothing, but for some reason this revelation is a massive deal to me, and his words pack a wallop like a Doc Marten boot to the gut.

It should be of no consequence, no importance to me.  
So why is it?

 

We park ourselves on a bench, and I temporarily become preoccupied with admiring his long legs in their tight black jeans, stretched out before him.  
However we haven't been sat there long, when Brett stands, having seen his ex approaching. 

The knot in my stomach tightens, and I fight to keep my composure and look unruffled as the tall, lithe figure of a woman approaches. But all my efforts are in vain, and my heart sinks into my boots as I take in the chic, epitome of cool elegance that is Justine.

She is tall, a good three or four inches taller than I am, and her slender frame merely accentuates her height. Her thick, dark hair is shaped into a short bob, which is bang on trend, and her features are neat and pretty. She looks tomboyish yet stylish. And exotic in a foreign sort of way.

She's probably exceedingly intelligent too, given that Brett met her at university. I'll bet she's well travelled and is fluent in several languages, even the arcane ones such as old Norse or Aramaic - which aren't of any use unless you meet a genuine Viking or Jesus.  
She comes from money too, Alex told me. No doubt aristocracy. She probably has a longer pedigree than the queen.

She approaches Brett, and greets him fondly - a little too fondly for my liking - and they stand for a while, in quiet conversation.

Feeling more self-conscious than ever, I remain on the bench, silk cut fumes pouring from my nostrils, feeling about as sexy as an overstuffed black bin liner.

She's wearing smart black suit trousers, and a casual white T.shirt. The latter spectacularly accentuates her olive skin tone, just like my own black T.shirt accentuates my alabaster one.

She's eyeing Brett like a hungry dog eyes a bowl of pedigree chum.  
But he's not her pedigree chum, I think hotly.  
Well at least not anymore.  
Then again, he isn't mine either. Nor is he likely to be.  
I absentmindedly pinch at the soft fold of flesh which clings around my belly and hips, which has so far stubbornly resisted all attempts to shift it. 

She hands Brett his dictaphone, they give each other a small peck on the cheek, and I prickle all over with irrational jealousy.

You had him. I think.  
You had him. He wanted you. And you threw him away.

 

By the time Brett rejoins me, my skin is almost blistering with the heat of my envy.  
But there's something else now bothering me too, and I silently curse Damon for sowing the seeds of doubt in my mind.  
Although in fairness, the doubt was already there. And has been since the day Brett took me up to Hampstead Heath.

I'd somehow managed to force it to the back of my mind, but it's back again. Like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.

"Where do you find the inspiration for your song writing?" I blurt suddenly, as we set off walking back towards the town centre.

He rubs his chin and looks thoughtful. "I dunno really. From all sorts of things I suppose...love, life..."

"Your love life?"

"I never said my love life, I said love and life. Meaning in general."

"Oh. Right."

"Why do you ask?" He says this in his usual friendly tone, though I can see his brow furrow slightly in confusion.

I shrug in an attempt to look nonchalant. "Oh, no reason. I'm just curious about your songs, that's all."

"You mean, what they're about?" He ventures.

I nod.

"All kinds of things, like I said...life. I just try to make it sound more poetic and slightly less grim."

"What about....what about romance?"

"Romance?" He echoes, and his mouth tweaks up at the corner, displaying his dimple. "It depends on what your idea of romance is. Everyone is different."

I sigh heavily. "That's true. Did you know the Roman emperor Nero gave his girlfriend his wife's severed head in a basket as a gift?"

He grimaces. "Ew. Well I do now, cheers for that. I see what you mean though. I suppose that was his mad, twisted idea of a romantic gesture."

"Yep. Kind of makes you wonder what the girlfriend was thinking though, she should've ran a mile. But no, lovesick tool stuck around until he got bored and had her kicked to death."

"Christ! Nice bloke then. But how about you? What do you find romantic Sammy? Presuming it's not severed heads that is."

"Oh, you know. The usual silly, girly stuff I suppose. Long moonlit walks and passionate kisses in the rain....that sort of thing."

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "That's not silly."

"It is when it's nothing more than a stupid fantasy. It isn't real life, as you'd say."

We break off from the conversation in order to devise a plan and decide on finding a chippy to grab some late lunch, so we can sit by the lock and share a bag of chips or something.  
Not that Brett is 'tight' with his money - as my dad would say - but rather I quite like the idea of sharing chips whilst sitting down by the water, watching the boats.  
That's also my idea of romance, but I'm getting a bit carried away.

 

"So, your songs are about real life....which also means there must be an element of romance in them. And truth, right?" I pick up the conversation again, I just can't help myself.  
I'm like a dog with a bone.

But it's been nagging at me since Damon mentioned it. His accusation that Brett's entire first album was inspired by Justine and her betrayal.  
I'm trying to remember the songs, but it's no use. I've only heard them once and it was a while ago now.

I distinctly recall one song about sleeping pills, which I remember mostly because of the line about an angel, and the way Brett put me in mind of one as he sang it beautifully, with his ethereal beauty and otherworldly voice.  
It struck me then that he might well have fallen from heaven, although....so did Satan.  
And there's something deliciously devilish about Brett. But in a good way. I hope.

But...but what if Damon is right? Brett arranging to meet with Justine here has fuelled my paranoia. What if he's trying to make Justine jealous?  
No, that can't be right. I'm hardly going to evoke feelings of jealousy.  
Maybe he told her that I'm Damon's new girlfriend and he was rubbing her face in it? I couldn't hear their conversation.  
For all I know the pair might've been having a good giggle at my expense.

I shudder slightly, feeling quite sickened by the thought.

 

"Sammy, are you okay?" Brett's concerned voice pulls me back.

I hesitate, and my pause lasts long enough to make him slow down to a complete halt in the middle of the pavement.

"Sammy?" He looks directly at me, and I can't bring myself to meet his intense gaze. "Tell me."

"It's nothing."

"That's not true, I can read you like a book. Please just tell me, It'll bug the shit out of me if you don't. And then I'll just have to keep bugging the shit out of you."

I suck in a deep breath, beginning to feel quite panicked now.  
He's right. I know him well enough to know that he won't let this go, and will no doubt continue pestering me until I cave.  
I'm going to have to be brave, just grip the bull by the horns and ask him outright.  
Otherwise I'll never know any peace of mind.

"We're....we are friends aren't we Brett?"

"Of course. Why would you even need to ask that? I think we..."  
His voice dissolves and his expression darkens like a huge black cloud passing over the sun. "Oh. Hang on a minute. Has this got something to do with Damon?"

I chew on my bottom lip furiously, and it would seem that is all the response he needs.

"Come on, what has he said?"

"He seems to think that...that...you're only being nice to me, to get back at him." 

"What?" He exclaims sharply, almost making me jump. "You're fuckin' kidding me? And the sad fucker actually believes that does he, or is he just trying to stir up shit between you and me?"

"But he isn't stirring up any shit between-"

"Please, please don't tell me you actually believe him?"

Shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I feel myself withering beneath the heat of his blistering glare, his eyes now resemble two glowing coals, and he's looking at me as though he can burn a hole in me with them.

"For fucks' sake Sammy! Really?" 

I've never heard nor seen him look so angry before, and it is deeply upsetting. This is not what I wanted. I can feel him moving away from me, emotionally and physically, as he abruptly sets off walking again.  
He is undeniably, thoroughly pissed off. And I need to fix this.  
And fix this fast.

I dart after him, struggling to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. "I didn't know what to think. That's why I had to ask." I say breathless, a little desperate. Hoping to limit the damage. "No ones ever been that nice to me before."

He doesn't answer me, and I can't quell the rising panic that's frothing in my throat, making it difficult for me to catch my breath. My chest feels heavy like a lead weight has been placed on me, and it's slowly crushing me to death.  
What I'm feeling borders on physically painful. I'd rather him unleash his fury on me, and shout angrily than blank me.

"Brett please." I beg. "I'm sorry. I just had to ask, I had to."

"Why? Why did you have to ask me something like that Sammy?" He hisses in a don't-you-dare-actually-answer-me-or-this-conversation-is-over tone. "Do you honestly think I could be so conceited? So callous, so calculating?"

We reach a point where the pavement has been dug-up, and workmen are busily extricating what looks like gas pipes from beneath the concrete. A pedestrian safety barrier has intervened between the path and the road, forcing us to part ways as we walk alongside it. 

"No. I don't think that at all. It's just..."

"It's just what?" He demands.

"It's just, I suppose I couldn't understand why you would be so nice to me." My voice wobbles with emotion, and tears pool in my eyes.

Overhead there's a sudden ominous rumble of thunder, and all at once the heavens open. Other pedestrians make a mad dash for shelter in shop doorways, or scurry off down the street, but we just keep on walking. Both of us refusing to acknowledge the downpour. And I can honestly say I don't feel the rain, just as I don't see the passing cars or hear the sound of the traffic or rainfall bouncing off the tarmac. Everything else pales in significance, leaving only us.

He impales me with his blue eyes that shine with fury. His face contorted by failed words.

"Brett, I am sorry. You've been so kind towards me, and because of that, I just thought you might be-"

"Using you to get one over on Damon." He supplies with a snarl "So you automatically think the worst of me. Presuming me to have some fucked-up motive." His voice lowers but now instead of sounding indignant and furious his tone is tinged with disappointment. I don't know which is worse. "It was easier for you to believe I had a hidden agenda, rather than just believe that I actually......" He wavers slightly, as if carefully searching for the right words. And my heart is suddenly in my mouth. "...that I actually...like you...and care about you."

In an instant he's gone from enraged and affronted, to heartbreakingly sad.

My blood is chugging through my veins, forcing little ripples of blood out to my throbbing temples. I feel heavy, and strange and hollow inside. An insane buzzing-feeling in my head making it impossible for me to think clearly.

He stops again, and turns to look down at me. His expression all soft and sad, and I can sense impending doom like a gathering storm. "But now I know you obviously can't think that much of me."

"No! That's not true, Brett I care about you too...a lot."

"But you don't trust me. Clearly."  
The anger, hurt and bitter disappointment is evident in his expression, as well as his voice.

"I do...well, I mean I should have, but I do now. Completely."

The rain is coming down heavier now, and he pushes his wet hair back from his face. His eyes never leaving mine. "You don't get it do you? Have you any idea how shitty you've made me feel? Believing that sneaky bastard of a boyfriend, a man who lies and cheats and does have an ulterior motive, over me? But of course, you would believe him.....because he's your boyfriend."

He turns abruptly, and talking to his back isn't any easier than talking to his face.

"Yes but, that doesn't have anything to do with it. And we're not even properly together anyway. This is all because of my own stupid insecurities." I wail, huge droplets of rain streaking their way down my face, melding with my tears.  
It had never made sense in my head, but it probably makes less sense coming out of my mouth.  
"Can we please just...just talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about?” His tall frame sags slightly, his shoulders slumping forwards. 

I try to speak but the words seem to stick in my throat. I'm quiet for a heartbeat too long, Brett growls under his breath and starts up the street again.  
Panic squeezes at my chest, so I lunge forwards and grab hold of his arm.  
"Wait! Brett, please....I..."

The contact is enough to make him think twice about walking off, and he looks at me over his shoulder, his one visible eye narrowed.  
My hand falls away nervously as my eyes fuse with his.  
I'm desperately trying to relay what I need to say to him using eye contact alone, being as I haven't quite mastered the art of telepathy yet.

He turns slowly towards me and before I realise his intentions, he catches me by the arms, and pulls me into him with such force that my entire body follows.  
His kiss is so sudden and fierce that for a split-second I wonder if my front teeth have been knocked down my throat.  
His passion and ferocity is both startling and arousing, and my heart beats wildly, my pulse whooshing in my ears as I lose all of my senses to him.  
The kiss is powerful, his lips are perfect, and create a sweet, electrifying vibration throughout my entire body, making every nerve stand on end.

Then suddenly he's gone.

I stand rooted to the spot, dazed, breathless and overwhelmed as I watch his retreating back. His tall frame cuts a lonely figure as he walks away. I close my eyes against the sting of tears and bury my face in my hands.

 

How is it possible for one of the worst moments of your life, to simultaneously be the most utterly perfect?


	11. It Started With A Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N  
> Just want to say a BIG thank you to Olivia, Ali and Barmy About Brett for leaving such encouraging, insightful feedback. As always it is greatly appreciated, and I love hearing your thoughts on the story.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next chapter xD
> 
>  
> 
> ***************************

So, I kissed Brett.  
Or rather Brett kissed me.  
Brett actually freaking kissed me!

Wow.

If there were words to describe how it has made me feel, I would, but there aren't.  
To say I was shocked by his bold move is an understatement.  
In fact I actually still am in shock, as I wind my way through the market at Southwark, back to the flat.

I couldn't face going back to the shop because I'm in quite a state.  
Soaked to the skin, and my puffy, red- rimmed eyes will give the game away, and then my dad would want to know why I've been crying, and.....well, there's no way I'm going into all of that with him. 

My luck is the absolute worst, I realise, when Jane hears my key jingle in the lock and she floats out of the bathroom in her red robe, and a towel wrapped around her head like a turban.  
Damn. Why does she have to be home?  
I do not deserve me life, I really don't.  
I've never deliberately hurt anyone. I'm kind to animals and I love my parents. I don't steal and I don't buy booze for school kids who hang around outside shop corners, no matter how much abuse they give me.

"Sam." She exclaims, giving me a quick once-over with her scrutinising eyes. "I thought you would have been coming home with your father. My goodness, look at you! You're absolutely drenched."

I deliberately turn my back to her as I force my feet out of my shoes, not bothering to untie the laces. "Uh, yes I....decided to come home early." 

I don't need this. Not now.

It's like a bad joke, 'who dresses in red and knows if you've been naughty or nice?'  
Santa. Maybe, if he actually existed.  
The Spanish Inquisition. Very possibly, once they'd subjected their prisoners to torture.  
Jane. Definitely, without a shadow of a doubt.  
The woman has a knack for wheedling the truth out of me, and I don't know how she does it but it's infuriating.

"Is everything alright? You seem very quiet, dear."

Dear? That's a new one.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?" I croak, but it's taking enormous effort to hold my shit together. I can feel my bottom lip wobble, and my chest hurts from trying to suppress a sob.

She moves towards me, so I try to walk passed her, head bowed in a lame attempt to hide my blotchy, tear-stained face, but she's having none of it.

"What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Everything is wrong. And yes something has happened.

Brett kissed me, without warning, and it was amazing. Life-changing even.  
It set my belly off on some sort of spin-cycle, like a washing machine. It was so completely unexpected I'd had no chance to prepare, and didn't even have time to react.  
His lips were just.....suddenly there.  
He stole my breath and gave it back.  
The kiss was urgent and filled with a need I've never known before, and now I've had a taste, I realise I'll never have enough.  
It's shown me that every other kiss I've had in my life has been wrong.  
Basically, even though it was hurried and brief, it was still the best kiss I've ever had.

But then he walked away.  
So now what? Will I ever even see him again? Does he hate me now?  
Oh shit...

"Sam. What is the matter?" Jane puts her arms around me as I feel myself crumple.  
The tears are flowing again, I fight to keep them in but this is a battle I'm not destined to win.

"It's...it's nothing....I just...I had a row..." I snivel. 

"A row with who? Damian?"

I shake my head, and can't even be bothered correcting her as she once again gets Damon's name wrong.  
"No...Brett...I told him about Damon, how he suspects that Brett is just using me, pretending to like me as a friend.....just to piss Damon off."

"What? Why would Damon think such a thing?"

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and by this time they feel raw. As though they've been pickled in vinegar.  
"It's a long story. But Brett got so angry. He was fuming. He couldn't believe that I had doubted him...and he...he stormed off."

Jane pats and rubs my back in the same manner a mother does when trying to wind their baby. But even though I find her touchy-feely ways inexplicably annoying at times, right now there's something strangely comforting in her gesture.

I've never been particularly close to this woman, but my own mothers' reaction would be far less patient in this sort of situation. She'd tell me not to worry, and that I'd get over it. She wouldn't understand what I was making such a fuss about.

"Why don't you phone him? I'm sure you'll be able to sort it out, you just need to talk things through."

"I can't ring him, I feel awful. I've really hurt his feelings." 

"He'll soon calm down. You'll see. He may even phone you." She soothes. 

I shake my head, screwing my eyes tightly shut, but the the tears still push out. Forcing their way through my soggy lashes, taking the last trace of mascara with them.  
"I don't think so. I just don't know what to do Jane. I need...."

She frowns as my words trail off. "You need....what?"

"I don't know, it sounds crazy but I just need....him. I mean, I need him to not be mad at me...I need us to be okay, but he won't want to be friends anymore. Not now, not after everything."

"Everything? Sam, it was just an argument that's all. Stop panicking, it isn't the end of the world, you'll make up-"

"It's not that simple." My voice is strained now, and my head relentlessly pounds in rhythm to my pulse. "I...he...we...well we kind of...kissed. Well, we did kiss. It was so quick though, and I don't get it. Why would he do that?"

She blinks slowly, and then beams at me. I'm confused to why she's suddenly grinning like a Cheshire Cat that's drunk on Irish cream.

"What?" I sniff, feeling incredibly self conscious and defensive. My face is already flushed from all the crying, as well as having just admitted to the impromptu kiss.

"Don't make me say it Sam, for heavens sake. Do I need to spell it out for you? There's only one reason why he would've kissed you. He obviously has the hots for you."

"What? Um, no. Don't say that!" I squirm, face turning a deeper shade of red so it now rivals her robe. "That's...that's not true. He doesn't...ugh."  
It's no use. I can't bring myself to repeat her cringe-worthy presumption.

He has the hots for me? Please.  
Like that would ever happen.

But Jane is adamant. "Oh of course he does. I told you that right from the start. And now he's proved me right"  
Unbelievably, she raises two thumbs right into my face.

"What Jane? Fandabidozi?"

"Don't be facetious Sam. He fancies you and that's all there is to it."

"But that isn't all there is to it." I say, trying to conceal my irritation. "He doesn't fancy me, he can't-"

"Why can't he?"

"Because I'm just me. I'm no great catch...whereas he.....well, he is."

"Oh I do wish you'd stop putting yourself down Samantha." She says grumpily. "You need to get the idea out of your head that you're somehow unworthy of a man who has a bit of class. Why must you think you're destined only to date illiterate, beer-guzzling oiks with a lone NVQ in welding."

Jane can be such an unapologetic snob at times. But I can't be angry with her.

"Er, 'scuse me? Even I haven't got any NVQ's yet, I'm only seventeen. Brett on the other hand is twenty four, and has more qualifications than I've had hot dinners. So why would he want me? I'm like a kid. And a fat kid at that!"  
I flounce into my room, closing the door slightly so I can peel my wet clothes off in private, but still continue my rant.  
"You should see his ex girlfriend. She's so cool. And skinny. And pretty....and of course she's the same age as him, and has her fancy degree in art or whatever."

I hear Jane huff, seemingly exasperated. "Okay, well for a start, your birthday's coming up this weekend, you'll officially be eighteen, which is hardly a child. Secondly, and most importantly, you are not fat Samantha, you're a healthy weight for your height. The results from your hospital check-up proved that."

I snort rudely as I walk back into the hall, now dressed snugly and scruffily in my pyjama pants and oversized jumper.

"And lastly..." Jane continues, counting each point she's making on her fingers for added emphasis. "...Whoever his ex is, she's his ex for a reason. And you shouldn't go comparing yourself to her. If there's one lesson you need to learn in life Sam, it's that no one is better than you. Regardless of how clever or beautiful they may be. You need to recognise your own worth."

She does have a point. But she still doesn't understand.  
I don't actively choose to harbour the insecurities I have - it's more like they chose me.  
I know I'm not a complete waste of space, but Brett with all his charisma, talent, intellect and good looks, is hardly going to want a girl like me on his arm.  
He's almost a fully-fledged rockstar now, and he'll be surrounded by 'beautiful people' who are in the same league.

I don't stand a chance, so there's no point giving myself false hope.  
Whatever the kiss was about, I'm certain it can't be because he finds me attractive.  
But the incessant need to find out, could quite possibly drive me insane.  
Especially as I'm hardly likely to see him again, apart from on bloody Top of the Pops.

And the stifling weight of my sadness, as I realise this, threatens to suffocate me.

 

********************************

 

I spend the next couple of days wallowing in self pity, having rapidly, and worryingly reverted back to my old habits of not leaving the flat and eating way too much junk.

Admittedly, it is also my 'time of the month' which doesn't help with my low mood, and the cramps I get are enough to put my life on pause for a day or two anyway.

But I'm frustrated with myself for being unable to resist the bags of Haribo and M&M's.  
I so desperately need to lose weight. I want to look all svelte and toned, so I can hold my own against the likes of Justine, with her wafer-thin body, sloane breasts, and benign expression. All bra-less and beautiful. 

Or even that girl Danielle, with her toned arms, flat stomach and glowing complexion. She looked like she should be frolicking in a meadow, with ponies in the sunshine.  
Brett may not have got it on with her, but any hot-blooded male would have to be blind to not notice her 'assets'

I find myself caught-up in a vicious circle, by becoming a recluse again I'm not getting any exercise, and I'm eating out of pure boredom and for comfort. I'm never going to shift these extra pounds if I stay rooted to the sofa.  
Unless I knock myself sick with the sweets, so then I won't have any appetite for them.

That can actually happen on occasion when my blood sugar goes high, it makes me feel like crap, to the point of throwing up.  
And not only does feeling sick curb any hunger, eventually if your blood sugar keeps running too high your body begins to burn fat, and voilà! Immediate weight-loss program.

I hadn't thought about it before, but if I were to reduce the amount of insulin I take, that would raise my blood sugar levels...  
Hm. It's a tempting but stupid idea.  
It could make me seriously ill, and besides, eating the sugar defies the object.  
No point almost killing myself to shed weight, whilst still stuffing loads of sugary, coma-inducing foods.

 

Deciding i'm in dire need of a pick-me-up, I end up pleading with Jane to help give me a makeover.  
At first she's enthusiastic about the idea, and more than happy to help. That is until I hand her the scissors, and demand a hair cut.

"Are you sure about this?" She asks, with a worried expression. "Your hair is lovely."

"I'm sure. I'm sick of it, it's a mess. And I need a change." I insist.

And when I say change, I mean it.  
I go all out.  
It's not even enough that she begrudgingly chops my hair into a long bob - which actually turns out to be more hard work to maintain than I'd anticipated, blow-drying it into shape soon proves to be a nightmare due to my hair being wavy - but I'm far from done yet.

The next day I venture out to the local supermarket and buy myself the darkest brown hair dye that I can lay my hands on.  
The shade is called 'Bitter' Chocolate, which seems quite apt.  
As I study my visage in the mirror, likening myself to a work-in-progress, all I do is think about Justine, and the way Brett was so deeply enamoured of her, and I can practically see the irrational bitterness envelop me like someone pulling a black hood over my head.

When I emerge from the bathroom half an hour later as a brunette, my dad does a double-take and then looks at Jane quizzically.  
She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, but I choose to ignore them both.  
I don't need their approval. This is me reinventing myself.  
I'm tired of looking in the mirror and seeing the same old me, and they're not going to understand why I want to change my hair, my clothes, my face, body...everything.

 

I begin using a different shade of foundation so that my complexion isn't deathly-white against my dark hair, and I don't stop there.  
I'm like a girl possessed.  
I buy tan-wipes, (of all things) something I would never have dreamt of doing, but I have to keep telling myself that it's worth it.  
Even if the smell of them is so damn awful it almost makes my nose bleed, and I have to walk around my room with my legs splayed apart like a cowboy that's been in the saddle too long, waiting for the damn stuff to dry.

My clothes come next.  
Annoyingly, I'm fast beginning to run out of last months wages from my sales assistant job back home, so I'm not exactly able to hit Bond Street, so the market and local Oxfam, are the next best option.

I buy a couple of flirty gypsy skirts, some wedge-heeled shoes, a pair of white jeans, and some Bridget Bardot style tops.  
One of which is a black lace-front affair with a cute collar, the other an off-the-shoulder charcoal grey number which accentuates my bosom spectacularly. The style emphasises my boobs, whilst miraculously slimming-down my wide hips.

Just to be on the safe side though, I also purchase a padded Wonderbra, which is without a doubt the most uncomfortable contraption to wear. I feel like I'm hoisting my bosoms into a sling-shot with whale bones for wires, but who cares?  
It's an essential. This is me growing up and, how did Jane put it? Flaunting my sexuality.

 

It's been four days since my argument with Brett (although technically it wasn't much of an argument, more like him just being angry at me whilst I gabbled apologies)  
I'm sitting on the sofa, all dressed-up with no place to go, when Jane arrives home from her yoga class (yoga, of all things!) and immediately starts acting very cagey around me.

It's like she's on edge, pacing around the flat almost aimlessly in her hideous pink velour tracksuit, doing a lot of huffing and puffing under her breath. I also notice she keeps darting nervous glances at me.

Maybe she disapproves of my new look more than I realised.

"Are you not going to the shop today?" She asks finally.  
A question that I find quite odd, given that I haven't been going to work with dad anymore.

"Wasn't planning on it." I reply, as I switch between TV channels, searching for something to watch that doesn't actually make my brain hurt.

She huffs again, which leads me to the conclusion that this wasn't the answer she was hoping for. Still, she should've known better.  
Just because I'm wearing clothes doesn't mean I have any intention of going outdoors. 

"Well, maybe you should. You've not been in the last few days, it'll do you good to get some fresh air."

"It's hardly fresh air." I riposte, without looking up. "We're in London, not Hertfordshire."

"Don't be pedantic Samantha. I mean it'll do you good to get out and be amongst people." She counters.

I frown at her. "I went out yesterday. And there are never any people in the shop anyway, trust me."

"That's not true, just because there aren't many customers doesn't mean people don't go in to browse. You need social interaction."

"Pfft. I saw people through the window this morning. That's enough social interaction for one day, thanks."

"Oh for heavens sake, why must you insist on being so argumentative?"  
She's looking thoroughly exasperated now, her patience having dwindled away to nothing. And her melodramatic reaction gives me the distinct impression that I'm in her way somehow, and she wants me out from under her feet.

Feeling slightly hurt now, I turn to face her. "Why are you trying to get rid of me? If you want me out of your hair then you only have to say so." I say waspishly. "I'm sorry I didn't realise my being here is disturbing you."

"May I just say something?" She says in a polite voice, which almost makes me feel bad for being so sharp with her.  
She doesn't normally ask permission to speak, which is even more odd. "I'm only suggesting you go down to the shop because I care more about your welfare than you realise."

"My welfare?" 

What is she on about?

"Yes Sam, your best interests....and no, it's not about fresh air, social interaction or anything like that. This is about your happiness. Just go to the shop, I really think you ought to. Please. You won't regret it."

I stare at her blankly, contemplating whether she's perhaps overdone it a bit with the chamomile tea. Or perhaps she's secretly doing drugs. Going to yoga might just be her cover story, in reality she might be going to meet her dealer.  
I bite back a grin at the thought.

But there's something in her look that suggests I need to pay attention to her, and not stubbornly refuse to budge.  
So even though it goes against my inquisitive, slightly cynical nature, I find myself heading out without pestering her for an explanation.

 

****************

My curiosity has been roused enough to make me fight my way through late afternoon traffic on the packed, stuffy underground.  
Sweat threatens to trickle down my face, and the wires in my bra are digging into my ribs, but I practically leap onto the platform from the train, the minute the doors open.

I scurry through the throng of disgruntled commuters, opting to ignore their dirty looks as I push though them.  
Finally I'm learning to negotiate crowds like a native.  
I'm adapting to my surroundings.

 

When I reach 'Raucous Records' I am breathless from having tore down the high street like a Tasmanian Devil.  
But what I see, takes my breath away for a completely different reason.

The place is absolutely abuzz with punters, they're filing out onto the street, clutching little carrier bags, laughing and chattering wildly amongst themselves.

I'm tempted to rub my eyes, but i don't want to smudge my eye make-up.  
Maybe I should pinch myself instead, because this is all too bizarre.

I walk closer, and it is then that my attention is drawn to the huge banner strewn across the shop window, which announces;

BRETT FROM SUEDE, EXCLUSIVE RECORD SIGNING  
IN-STORE TODAY

I blink, rereading the banner slowly. Then reread it again.

Is this some sort of elaborate, practical joke? 

I find the will from somewhere to make my legs move, and slowly push open the door.

There's hardly room to move inside, and the small space is filled with excitable voices.  
They're an eclectic bunch of grunge-types, indie-chicks and even a few identikit-trendies.  
And they're all buying Suede's newly released single.....and having it signed.  
By Brett.

I hear his voice in the crowd more than any other. Not because he's loud, simply because it is his.  
I feel my stomach wrench, and my pulse quickens as I follow the distinctive sound.

He's right there.

All hair, dimples, and cheekbones.  
His trademark leather jacket half open, and he's shirtless underneath.

Hot damn.  
Why does he have to be so sexy and adorable? It's a lethal combination.  
I tingle all over, and my knees wobble a little.

He's smiling gently, listening politely to the dozen or so fans who are all simultaneously trying to keep him talking, and I can see he's doing his best to engage with each of them in turn as they flock around him.

In a trance-like state, my numb legs manage to get me to the counter, where I grab one of the few remaining copies of the single, entitled 'The Drowners' from the stand and join the queue.

"Oh, hullo love!" My dad forces a thin smile when it's my turn to be served. His face immediately begins reddening, a tell-tale sign that he's flustered "Didn't recognise you for a minute. What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" I cry indignantly "Just buying one of these like everyone else."  
I push the 45" vinyl across the counter at him.  
"But more to the point, what is Brett doing here? You could've told me he'd be here signing records. What is all this about, dad? You hate modern music!"

He looks almost guilty now as he leans forwards, explaining in hushed tones. "Alright Sam, keep your hair on. Brett called in the other day, and at first I naturally assumed he was looking for you, but as it turns out he had a proposition for me."

He taps the amount into the till, and I wave him away when he attempts to let me off without charge. Rummaging through my purse, I pull out a crumpled fiver and force it into his hand.

There's no way I'm going to take this vinyl single as a freebie. 

Dad reluctantly takes the money, hands me my change and continues. "Regardless of what I think about this modern stuff, he has an astute head for business. And he's a nice genuine young fellow too."

"Since when have you been able to form such a rounded opinion of someone you've only met the once?"

"Twice, well three times including today. And it's simple really. When he suggested I sell a batch of his records in exchange for him coming in to sign them for the customers, I was taken aback. I know I don't usually sell this sort of thing, but it makes good business sense. He reckons I'm doing him a favour, and obviously he's doing me one. But it doesn't take a brains of Britain to work out why."

He smiles at me knowingly, and my face flushes.  
Oh God, not my dad too!  
Does he genuinely believe that Brett is doing this just because he fancies me?  
I'm struggling to take it all in.

Snatching up the record, I deliberately avoid looking my dad in the face as I challenge him. "I didn't even know about this, Dad. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to, love." Dad says, sounding all apologetic "But he swore me to secrecy. He specifically insisted that I wasn't to tell you."

Something snaps in the back of my head. A rogue neurone kicks in, and I suddenly have to speak to Brett.  
I need to speak to him.  
Now.  
I can't stand this anymore, and I want to ask what the heck is going on. I feel like I've slipped into the Twilight Zone or Bermuda Triangle.

Leaving my dad looking bewildered, I manage to wade and elbow my way through the mini-crowd surrounding Brett.  
When I'm able to catch sight of him, to my dismay, he is talking to a waif-looking red-head, with such an effective push-up bra that her breasts rest crazily plumply just below her collarbones.

Ugh. My Wonderbra isn't anywhere near as good as that.  
Although to his credit, Brett doesn't seem remotely interested in her expansive bosom. He does however, say something that they both find unbearably funny, and they bray with laughter like a pair of donkeys on laughing-gas.

Ouch.  
Suddenly the sight of him laughing is quite painful, and my guts twist into tightening jealous knots. 

Spurred on by my irritation, I push forwards until I'm standing right in front of him. My stomach is flipping and fluttering and I have to fight the strange urge to run away.  
He stands poised, marker pen at the ready, and it takes him a moment to recognise that it's me.

Throwing me a mildly annoyed look, the red-head is forced to stand aside, as Brett rotates his hand at her encouragingly. I give a crumpled smile. He doesn't smile back. Instead he's staring at me strangely as if he can't quite believe that I exist. 

Sweet Lord, his eyes are so seriously blue. Almost sickeningly blue, full-on cloudless sky blue. Someone should name a crayon after the guy.

"Sammy?" He says at long last, looking me rather rudely up-and-down, until his gaze eventually comes to rest on my chest.

Well, in all fairness my appearance has altered so dramatically I barely even recognise myself. And this grey top does make my boobs look deceptively huge, as if they've been inflated with a bicycle pump.  
Still, that's one to me, and nil points for the red-head. I've somehow bested her in the bra-wars, or rather 'out-breasted' her.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

My brow dips into a frown. "Well yeah, obviously not. Why do people keep saying that though? This is my dads' shop, I'm entitled to be here. I haven't been barred as far as I know."

His jaw clenches. "Yeah alright, it's just that I-"

"You didn't expect me to find out about this? I know." I cut in spikily, as I wave the record I've just purchased under his nose triumphantly. "But hey, I want an autograph...just like everyone else. Is that okay with you?"

He crosses his arms over his chest, and shifts his weight onto one leg. A pose that distinctly screams 'attitude'  
"You haven't actually paid for that have you? You didn't have to. You could've just had a copy, on the house."

I make a face. "Umm, no. I don't want freebies, thanks.. Can I have it signed though please? That is unless you don't want to?"

He leans in towards me, unexpectedly pressing his lips close to my ear, and I gulp as I feel his cool breath.  
"Look, d'you think that maybe we could do this someplace else?"

I notice the woman with the push-up bra noticing this and I also notice she doesn't like it.  
Make that 2-0 to me.

I shrug and walk passed him, heading for the door which leads to a small back room.  
It takes enormous effort, but Brett successfully detaches himself from the group. He catches up and begins steering me away, his large hand placed at the small of my back.  
The simple, yet intimate contact sends clusters of tingles creeping down my spine, as his fingertips seem to burn right through my clothes.

A few over-zealous fans try to follow us, but we manage to escape into the back room.  
His dark brows beetle together in perplexed bemusement as he turns his whole body towards me. 

"What?" I demand, stuffing the record into my bag.

"Nothing."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"  
He is feigning ignorance, but his expressive face always betrays him.

"I don't know, just...weirdly"

"Sorry, I don't mean to. I'm just slightly distracted, trying to get my head around the sudden image change, and I can't help wondering what brought it all on."  
My face heats up and I hope he won't notice in the gloomy darkness of the glorified closet that we're standing in, but he must do, as he hastily corrects himself.  
"I mean, you just look so different. I wouldn't have known you."

"Yes, well.." I push my wiry hair behind my ears, which is difficult to do now that it's so much shorter. "I've never really liked my hair colour, and I fancied a change that's all."

"Yeah but, the cut as well...is it not all a bit, y'know? Drastic? Don't get me wrong though, you look great."  
He reaches out, and I freeze as he toys with a strand of hair that has come loose, stubbornly refusing to stay in place.  
"But you looked just as great before too. And I actually really liked your hair colour. It was like....the Autumn"

What a gorgeous, poetic analogy. He has such a beautiful soul.

I swallow hard, letting out a deep breath I didn't know I was holding, and will my pulse to calm down.  
All the while a little voice inside my head is screaming at me to just push him back against the door, and kiss him silly.

"I didn't....I didn't think you'd even speak to me again." I blurt out. "You didn't want me knowing about today. Why? Is it because you're still angry with me?"

He sighs deeply. "Look, I just wanted to help your dad out with this place. It was all rather rushed actually, trying to organise the delivery of the records, and our management couldn't allow any major press coverage otherwise I'd be in breach of contract with our promoters. So all I could do was advertise locally and hope for the best." 

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a lone cigarette from his packet of B&H.  
"D'ya want next-on?"  
He asks, and I shake my head. 

As tempting as it is to share a cigarette with him, purely due to the intimacy of it, I still can't justify helping him smoke his last cig, knowing I have plenty of my own.

"I'll be honest, I was a bit terrified that no one would show up." He carries on, now fiddling in his pocket for a lighter. "It's been giving me sleepless nights."

"Oh, Brett. I don't know what to say. I can't believe you'd go to so much trouble. Thank you." 

Once more the nagging need to hug him returns, but all emotional-stuff aside, I want nothing more than to show him how much I appreciate his generosity and thoughtfulness.  
Yet I daren't. There's this undeniable simmering tension between us now, that wasn't there before. And I'm desperate to clear the air, in the vain hope of dispelling it.

"I'm so grateful, I truly am." I add hurriedly, before I lose my nerve. "But....none of what you've said really explains why you wouldn't want me here today."

"It's not about not wanting you here." He says sharply, exhaling smoke as he speaks. "It's not an easy thing to explain. What you said the other day really did hurt me. Trust is a very important thing to me, Sammy....so finding out that you didn't trust me was a bit of a kick in the bollocks."  
He smiles at me now, but without showing any teeth. It's his shy smile, the one he does when he's being coy.  
"It wasn't just that though...it's a lot more complicated than that."

"Well can you try to explain it, please?" I attempt to sound causal and laugh but it comes out as more of a barky little yelp. "Was it, because of the other thing...you know, the thing that happened? Between us?"

He nods stiffly but I'm still not sure he knows what I'm talking about.  
But talking to him is proving far from the easy task it usually is.

"Why, um... just out of interest...why did you kiss me?

Shit, I can't believe I just said the words. Did I really just ask him that?  
But now it's out there I can't take it back. And there's no point trying to back-peddle. I make the conscious decision to be bold.  
I am a new woman. Not just a girl.

To my astonishment, his complexion goes pink.  
Anyone else might not notice the subtle shift in his colouring, especially here in the darkness.  
But I do.

"Yeah, um...I'm sorry for that. "  
He apologises, looking at me from the side of his eyes, and I wonder if he means it.  
"It just seemed like a natural sort of thing to do really. I was trying to be spontaneous and romantic, ya'know what I mean?" He clears his throat. "...but I was also being a bit selfish as well."

"S-selfish?"

He nods again, and studies me for a moment. His blue eyes darting to and fro across my face as if trying to read my mind.  
"Yeah, because that's what you said you like, romantic kisses in the rain and that kind of thing....and I wanted to be the one to give you what you wanted. Which is quite selfish of me in a way."

Oh holy Jesus.

His voice is low and hits me deep in my belly, and I stumble for words. I am desperately trying to read between the lines. Desperately trying to make sense.

"It's...not selfish. Why is it selfish?" I rasp, as my mouth goes dry like a fish out of water.

I am so completely in tune and aware of how close he is, and how he's looking at me. It's as if he's just woken from a deep, isolating sleep, and I'm the first person he's seen in years.

"Damon." He supplies simply, tilting his chin upwards he brings his large hand to his jaw, thinking. "He's the one who gets to steal kisses from you in the rain. Not me. I'm not your boyfriend. It was out of order."

I know what I am going to say next, and I feel powerless to stop myself. I'm worried about our friendship, obviously. But I'm also worried that if I don't tell Brett the truth, it will eat me alive.

"I honestly didn't mind..." I pause for a half-second, and then I can't stop. "In fact...every time he's kissed me, I wished it were you."  
I breath the last words into a sentence, and it hangs between us like a fog.  
Immediately I know that I've said absolutely the wrong thing.

People talk all the time about falling for a friend, about how they're afraid it'll ruin their friendship, or how scared they are at the thought of taking things to the next level.  
Well, taking things to the next level is all I've been able to think about recently. Even though I know it's wrong.  
Brett still isn't over Justine, he probably doesn't like me like that, and I've been casually dating his housemate and rival.

Yet somehow I don't seem to care.  
I know it makes me a shallow, selfish, fickle person but some dark place inside of me just aches for him. I ache for more.  
I want to be more than just friends, even though the reality of it terrifies me, and the very real possibility of him not feeling the same way is bound to crush me.  
I'm horribly confused, and alarmed at the intensity of how these feelings have come on.  
At first I only liked him, well, half-liked him. Then I thought I didn't like him at all, when really I did.  
And now...  
I want him.

He doesn't move and he still hasn't said anything, and I literally feel my stomach dropping.  
How hideously embarrassing.  
I'm such an utter numpty, and I want to go and shrivel up in a deep dark hole somewhere.

"I'm sorry. It's just that ever since that first night you walked me home, for some crazy reason I thought you were going to kiss me, and I wanted you to. Even though I'd just kissed Damon, which sounds terrible, but after that I just couldn't get you out of my head.."  
I ramble, folding my arms with great difficulty, thanks to the good old Wonderbra. It's like having scaffolding supporting my chest.  
"It's been building up for some time now, and yes it's awful of me, but I can't help it. I'm sorry."

....And I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.

"Don't be. There's nothing to be sorry for." He says softly, sort of staring off into space. His expression is for once, unreadable. "Is that how you really feel though? Are you being serious?"

"Y-yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason. Yet again you've surprised me, Sammy."

Outside in the shop it is now very quiet, and I can hear the sound of my own ragged breathing, mingling with the deafening thrum of my heartbeat as Brett slowly moves his face so it's level with mine.

"I appreciate your honesty. But why is it awful of you? The circumstances might be far from perfect, I'll give you that, but you....you Sammy, you are."

My heart threatens to burst from my chest at any moment, the shock of his weighty compliment stunning me like a zap from a defibrillator.  
I can't focus on anything other than the way his lips move.  
How his lower lip dips in a bit to the side sometimes when he speaks. How his upper lip is ever so slightly thinner than his bottom one; forming the perfect Cupid's bow.

"And as for the kiss.." He says, his voice little more than a whisper. "I'm actually really glad I did that. Been wanting to do it for awhile."

Boom! There goes my heart.  
He's actually just killed me, I am sure of it.

Our faces are now mere millimetres apart and this time I am fully prepared, and he isn't trying to get away.  
He remains infuriatingly still though, and my mind quickly registers three things.  
One, he's so so close I can hardly think straight. Frankly I am not thinking straight.  
The second is, he does not regret the kiss.  
And the other, more infinitely dangerous,  
....I could just, kiss him.

Right here. Right now.

My gaze involuntarily flickers to his lips again for a moment, before scaling back up his handsome face.  
He's looking at me through heavy-lidded eyes, letting me know that he knows my intentions, and it feels as if he's challenging me.  
Silently daring me to go ahead and do it.

But wait, what's that noise?  
That dull thud that's growing increasingly louder?  
At first I dismiss it as my heartbeat, but when Brett draws back slightly, head cocked to one side, I know then that he hears it too.  
Surely it's not possible for him to hear my heart racing? Even if it is pounding away like a bass drum.

Suddenly the door to the back room swings open, and we instinctively fly apart.

You've got to be fucking kidding me?  
I swear I must be cursed.  
Someone up there, must hate me.  
Otherwise they wouldn't torture me like this.

"Well, that went well. I've just locked-up, they've all gone, all very satisfied customers." My dad beams like a megawatt bulb.

Well, I'm glad someone is satisfied.  
I think churlishly.  
I sure as hell ain't.

"They didn't want to bloody go, they were hoping you'd come back out and chat with them some more."  
He informs a distinctly tight-faced Brett.  
"But they got what they came for, and everybody's happy"

Not everybody. Not entirely happy anyway.

He rubs his hands together gleefully, and I can't help but smile.  
This is the first time the shop has turned a profit in months, so I shouldn't resent him for his appalling timing. It isn't his fault he's just inadvertently ruined a potentially perfect moment.

"Thanks for today, fella." He says, slapping Brett so hard on the back his eyes bulge. "Let me buy you a pint? I owe you that much."

"No problem. Honestly, it's been a pleasure." Brett grins, despite having possibly just suffered a spinal injury. "And you don't owe me anything, Alan."

"Rubbish!" Dad clasps a hefty arm around his leather-clad shoulder. "I tell you what, how about we all go out for a meal, ay? To celebrate. I'll call the missus, and we can go up West. Make a night of it. What d'ya reckon? Come on, this is on me."

"No honestly, I couldn't let you do that." Brett insists politely. 

I have to admit I'm with Brett on this.  
My dad's barely shut up shop for the day and he's already planning how he's going to spend the takings.  
But, I also know what a proud man my father is. And he's easily offended when someone repeatedly declines his hospitality.  
He wants to celebrate, and repay Brett for his kindness.

"How about we just go back to the flat?" I suggest. "We could order a take-away instead?"

Dad and I both look at Brett hopefully, and for a moment he resembles a startled deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. 

"Umm, yeah okay." He shrugs. "As long as you're sure? That's very kind, Alan. Thank you." He smiles gently, and in that moment I want to kiss him more than ever.

If I ever get the chance. 

But once I do, I don't think I'll ever stop.


	12. True Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N*
> 
> Okay guys, so I apologise for the shortness of this chapter and if it seems a little boring or slow paced, then I promise to make up for it with the upcoming installments, as things are going to get a lot more interesting from here on in.  
> So, I do hope you won't be too disappointed.  
> Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Feedback is always much appreciated. So I'd like to give special thanks to those who leave comments and kudos (you know who you are!)  
> And thank you to all of you who have taken the time to read, and stick with this story.  
> You guys rock! xD
> 
> ***************************

"Oh God, what even is that, you stupid woman?"  
I flip back to the first page of the cookery book, double checking that it is actually a book which contains recipes, and not a rocket science manual.  
It may as well be though, for all the sense it makes to me. 

 

I've brought this unnecessary stress entirely on myself, and deep down I know it isn't anyone else's fault, but it's easier to blame someone - or even something - else.

Things had been going swimmingly up until this monumental set-back. 

Dad and Brett seem to actually be getting along, chatting amiably about the golden era of Punk music, and Brett entertains him with tales of how his classical music-loving father despaired over his unwavering obsession with The Sex Pistols.

Brett is perfectly charming and very smooth. Not in a sleazy, arrogant way, like the sort of men who wear loafer shoes and chinos, slather their hair in gel and insist on calling every woman they meet 'sweetheart', but in a very friendly and polite way.  
He's the kind of man you can introduce to your family and not have to worry about him embarrassing you by being rude, no matter how odd your family might be.

He even has the good grace to look interested as Jane prattles on and on about the benefits of meditation, yoga, and the importance of having your chakras regularly realigned.  
If all her hippy-dippy talk (as my dad likes to call it) doesn't faze him, then nothing else will.  
Not even her brazenly cooing over him.

"Goodness, he is wonderfully dreamy!"  
She whispers to me at one point, as he goes over to take a closer look at our old mantlepiece.

The woman has a knack for pointing out the obvious.

"What a beautiful fireplace." He muses enthusiastically, running his large hands across the tiled back wall. " Art Nouveau influence here on the tiling....late Edwardian, isn't it?" He asks this modestly as if he needs verification, even though he's the Architect school graduate.

He brushes his hair back from his eyes, and I rather want to cringe when Jane actually lets out a breathy sigh.

Alright, so I can't exactly blame her for the swooning-lady theatrics, but she is probably envisaging him in some Mr Darcy type get-up. All big white shirts and riding boots, and I have the sneaking suspicion the only reason she then insists on my dad lighting the fire is because she is secretly hoping that Brett might unwittingly oblige her by recreating a brooding stance, one that Jane Austen herself would be proud of.

Either that, or she's conspiring to get him out of his jacket by cranking the heating up in the flat.  
As if it isn't already hot enough with all the oestrogen flying around,  and his smouldering sex appeal.

"You ought to stop agonising over everything and seize the day." Jane urges with a conspiratorial nudge. "He won't be single forever, you mark my words. So for heavens' sake stop dithering, otherwise it'll be too late."

Luckily Brett isn't close enough by to hear this, or to notice my furious blushes.  
Bloody Jane, there she goes pointing out the obvious again.

 

Eventually after what feels like an eternity of my stepmother flirting, yes actually flirting, with Brett...the continuous arm touching, and coquettish giggling whilst fiddling with a loose curl.....the subject of food finally rolls around.

It is then we learn that Jane has already cooked pork for tonight's dinner, and I'm so unnerved by Brett gabbling unnecessary apologies, I engage mouth before brain and volunteer to cook, in the vain hope of guilting him into staying if I do so.  
Besides, I ignorantly presume it would give me the opportunity to impress him.

Call me selfish but I just didn't want him making polite excuses and leaving. My dad would be offended, and I'd be crushed, missing out on spending the evening with Brett, especially when I don't know when we'll ever have chance to do it again.

So, using the celebration as my main reason for insisting that I cook the meal, I opt to ignore dad and Jane's incredulous reaction (cooking doesn't exactly rank high on my list of pastimes) I lie through my teeth, and assure Brett that I know what I'm doing, and that his vegetarianism can be worked around with a little expertise/guidance.

Said 'expertise/guidance' was meant to have been provided by one of Jane's cookery books, but mindbogglingly, not one of them contain any vegetarian options, and I'm suddenly faced with the painful realisation that perhaps the only way I'll be able to offer Brett any edible food tonight, is to call upon his own expertise and ask him for guidance.  
Which is unbearably embarrassing, given that I'm desperate to prove what a capable, mature, sophisticated woman I can be.

However it would seem Brett knows me better than that - probably due to me never having mentioned my cooking skills in the past - as he knocks twice on the door, and then suddenly joins me in the kitchen before I'm able to protest.  
Not that I would protest, the newly-awoken pervert in me sordidly hopes that perhaps he's lost all of his senses and is here to ravage me against the fridge freezer.

Chance would be a fine thing.  
A very very fine thing indeed....

"Everythin' alright?" He asks with a quizzical expression that implies he seriously doubts my capabilities.  
And with good reason.

I want to reply, "Of course it is. I have this completely under control. Cooking is the staple diet (no pun intended) of my life back up North. You'll more often than not find me slaving away over a hot stove, concocting new, delicious and exciting recipes."

But of course Brett knows me better than that.

I shrug sheepishly "It would be if I knew what this bloody woman was going on about!"  
I wave the annoying recipe book around like a white flag of surrender.  
Some obscure celebrity chef grins mockingly back at me from the front cover. Judging me for not being the domestic Goddess that she so blatantly is.  
"I don't even know what Braise, Deglaze and Mirepoix means!"

 

Brett looks at me sympathetically, but I can see that he's also mildly amused.  
"Do you need a hand?"

"That would be great. Are you sure you don't mind?" I smile gratefully at him. "I feel awful you having to make your own dinner."

"Don't be daft, of course I don't mind. I wouldn't offer otherwise."  
Absentmindedly he goes for the zip on his jacket, then abruptly stops when he remembers that he's wearing nothing underneath. "Ah. Sorry, forgot myself then."

"It's fine, take it off if you like." I blurt, then immediately turn pillar-box red. "I mean, just to make yourself at home. That's all. You're going to get very hot. In here. With the stove on, I mean."

"I know what you meant. " He smiles coyly, and looks almost bashful for a fleeting moment. "And yeah I'm probably gonna evaporate wearing this, but it wouldn't be very nice would it? Being semi-naked when you're preparing food that other people have to eat?"

It'd be nice for me watching though, I think.

"Oh, right. Yes, not very hygienic I suppose." I agree grudgingly.

"So, um...where are you up to?"  Picking up a tomato from the counter, he casually begins tossing it up and down in one hand.

I bite hard on my bottom lip , and gesture sweepingly to the mounds of unprepared veg sitting untouched on the counter behind me, save for a lonely pile of peeled Maris Pipers  
"Didn't really get that far I'm afraid, but I have filled a pan with water...ready to boil the potatoes."

Efficiently he grabs a bottle of red wine from the rack, and throws an onion on the chopping board.  
"Right well, I'll make a start on a sauce....if you can chop those spuds into cubes, we can sauté them. It makes a change from serving them boiled."

 

He quickly takes charge, and soon the kitchen is filled with delicious, countless aromas.  
I am beyond astounded by his ability to salvage a meal from this potential disaster. His culinary talents I suspect he might've played-down, like he does with most everything.

I run about like his kitchen assistant, and in between the slicing, chopping, frying and boiling, I begin teasing him about Jane.

"She so blatantly fancies you." I taunt remorselessly. "She might only be tiny but she'd climb you like a tree given half a chance."

"She does not!" He protests with a slight shudder, his voice sounding slightly more higher-pitched than usual. "She's just being friendly that's all."

"Who are you trying to kid, Wolfie? Me or yourself?" I snigger "Admit it, you probably only offered to help out so you could get away."

His gentle bark of laughter warms me, as he fails to suppress his amusement. "That's so not true, and and you know it."

"I suppose you're quite used to it though, right? Having women fall for you? And you're going to get even more attention now, as the band become more popular."  
I watch closely for his reaction.  
He has his back to me, stirring something in a saucepan.

"You'll be travelling the country, the world even. You'll have your pick of women....and you're bound to meet someone, you know....special."

I see him pause for a moment, before continuing to move the wooden spoon around in a slow, circular motion.

"Pass me that knife will you please?"  
I point towards a sharp knife that lays next to him on the counter.  
"This one is a bit blunt."

He picks up the knife and turns towards me. As I look up at him I notice the way his eyes traverse my face, before hastily averting his gaze.  
"You need to crack on with those tomatoes, Sammy."

I decide not to bother reminding him that I finished chopping the tomatoes ten minutes ago, and he himself stirred them into the sauce. I'm well on to the mushrooms and carrots now. 

I'm not deliberately trying to coax him into saying the words I'd long to hear, because it's impossible.  
He can't resolutely promise that fame and fortune won't change him, just like he can't promise that our peculiar friendship will last.  
But after having semi-admitted my feelings to him, I'm starting to regret being so loose-tongued  
In truth, I'm feeling slightly foolish now, and the onset of panic is rising at the thought of losing whatever it is we already have. And if I didn't know it before, I know now that I need him in my life in some capacity, no matter what that might be.

And after having witnessed the attention he attracts from women, and taking not only Jane's advice and his earlier compliment into account, it is time to get real.  
Perhaps I'd been delirious, encouraged by the enormity of his remark about me being perfect, but there's a strong possibility he was just being kind, not wanting me to feel so bad about myself.

He is a dear, sweet man, and he wouldn't want to hurt my feelings. So whilst I will take on board the fact that I'm not exactly hideous inside or out, I also know that I am far from perfect.  
Unlike Brett, with his perfect teeth, and perfect face, and perfect body.  
Those high cheekbones, startlingly blue eyes, and full pillowy lips that look positively sulky when he isn't smiling his lazy smile, are continuous reminders that I am punching way above my weight by harbouring hopes of us being anything other than just friends.

And I need to let him know that I am completely aware of that, in case he's thinking that I've set my sights on us becoming an item or something.

He's been quiet for some time now, and the silence is almost deafening, so I force a pointed cough.  
"Well, thank you for all your help Brett, even though you've practically cooked the meal yourself. I'm glad you came. It means a lot to me you being here."

He stops what he's doing at the stove and gives me his full attention.  
"Does it?" He asks keenly, his eyes bright with anticipation.

"Well yes. My dad would've been absolutely gutted if you hadn't come."

"Oh, right. Well, no problem." He shrugs casually.

"Maybe it isn't to you, but it's a huge deal to me. I can't imagine Damon being quite so patient and polite."  
I see his shoulders tighten when I mention Damon's name.  
"Or Mark for that matter." I clumsily add in my haste to direct the focus from Damon.

"Who's Mark?"  
He is now pretending to concentrate hard on something in the cookery book.

No no no. This is coming out all wrong.

"Nothing it doesn't matter, he doesn't matter....no one else matters."

Brett lowers the book just enough to arch an eyebrow at me.  
Those irksome eyebrows are the one thing I have difficulty decoding, their movements express so many of his emotions, ranging from amusement to scepticism and everything else in between.  
With his facial expressions hidden, I have no clue what he's thinking.  
The desire to take a Bic razor to his brows and shave them off is irrationally tempting, then he'd be forced to actually say what he was thinking.

I'm tired of trying to second guess him all the sodding time. Sometimes I wish I could crawl inside that beautiful head of his, to find out what goes on in there when he's talking to me.

"What does matter, is you, Brett....you being here matters to me...us being friends matters to me."

Quite unexpectedly he puts the book down, and as we stand silently staring at each other I have to fight the urge to gently wipe away the small beads of sweat which have formed on his brow.  
I know if I do, my fingers will want to trace a line down his adorably imperfect nose to his mouth. And then I'd slowly replace my fingers with my lips.

There's a sizzling sound and it takes me a few seconds to figure out that it isn't coming from me.

"Brett! The sauce!"

Brett spins round and we see red wine sauce bubbling over the pan onto the hob.  
"Shit!" He curses under his breath. "It's not supposed to bloody boil. I'm gonna have to start again now."

Without thinking he lifts the pan aloft, and then promptly drops it back down with a clatter, having burnt his hand on the handle which isn't heat-proof.

"Are you okay?"

He dashes to the sink and begins running his hand under the cold water faucet, wincing slightly.  
"Yeah, I'll live."

Impulsively I reach out and grab him by the hand, inspecting the injury.  
"I know it isn't exactly life-threatening, but Jane has got some cream for burns, at least let me put some of that on it."

"No honestly, I'm fine. It's not that bad."

"You said that about your perforated ear drum too." I point out, brushing my thumb along his palm absentmindedly.

"Yeah, and I'm still here aren't I? That wasn't fatal either."

I feel the slight roughness of his skin, those hands that are so certain, and strong. I've grown to like the feel of them as well as the look of them, and inappropriate thoughts about what else they might be capable of, turn my insides to jelly. 

"You really are a stubborn sod at times, d'you know that?"

"It's not about being stubborn, I don't mean to be. It's just, having to be assertive has become a habit. Otherwise Blandine would have me wrapped up in cotton wool, and I'm not made of glass, I won't break."

"She just cares about you, that's all. As do I....There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

A loaded silence ensues, and my skin prickles with excitement as he unexpectedly laces his long fingers through mine. I stare at our entwined hands for a moment, then my eyes skit back to his face.  
Another shared look, which if I'm not mistaken, lasts long enough to be considered a 'moment' 

"Brett." I breath, struggling to swallow down the thickness in my throat. "Do you think we should...?"

"Yes?" He prompts, as I lose my nerve and words fail me.

"Um....make a start on the sauce?" I supply feebly.  
Because I'm well practised in the art of killing moments.

He smiles gently, relinquishes his hold on my hand, and I immediately mourn the loss of his touch.  
"Yeah, you're probably right."

 

We return to our kitchen duties and all sizzling, of any kind, is temporarily forgotten.

 

*************************

 

Before we sit down to eat, I deliberately take a lower dose of insulin than what I usually have. And whilst this would be severely frowned upon by my medical consultant, there is method in my madness.  
The way I figure it is, I'm trying to cut back on food portions in order to lose weight, but being as Brett has gone to such much trouble it'd be rude of me to not eat very much. So if I take a little less insulin then I normally should, then maybe it'll help speed-up the weight loss process.

Besides the food is absolutely delicious too, so it would be criminal to waste it. Although I don't go quite as far as my dad, who almost takes the pattern off the plate in his eagerness to scoff every last morsel.

Jane has opened a bottle of Prosecco, and for once my dad doesn't object to my having an alcoholic beverage. Although I'm not big on wine, I make the effort. Not wanting to appear childish by sitting there with a can of Diet Coke.

It's all very cosy, and other than me thinking I might have to hand Jane a napkin as she practically drools over the sliver of skin visible from the opening in Brett's jacket, I'm floored when I realise I'm actually having a really good time.

Jane is being pretty hilarious, my dad is in high spirits and Brett is both charming and funny, even obliging them both by performing an impromptu juggling act half-way through the meal with some left over onions, just to prove to my cynical father that he can juggle.

"You are a man of many talents." I smile shyly at him, and if I didn't know better I'd say he puffs his chest out ever so slightly, seemingly pleased by the compliment.

"I only learned to do it out of boredom really." He drawls in his melty Southern accent, once he's seated again and the onions have been returned to their rightful place back in the kitchen.  
"Spent a lot of time hanging around backstage, so it gave me somethin' to do."

"Well, you're most definitely good with your hands." Jane says, her eyes sparkling, and for a moment Brett's eyes go wide, though he visibly relaxes again when she asks.  
"What instruments do you play?"

"Oh, um. Guitar, and piano mostly. I do a bit of drumming as well, but I'm no pro." 

Oh, is that all, I think.  
Holy shit, there are no end to his talents.  
I smile wistfully to myself as the thought of how proud his mother would be of him, unexpectedly enters my head.

"Goodness!" Jane exclaims, clasping her hands together. "You could be a one-man band."

He laughs sweetly, as if the suggestion genuinely amuses him, and there's the dimple again.  
Damn.  
If we were having ice cream it would've melted by now, just by being in his presence.  
And I'll bet he never has to blow candles out on his birthday cake. He could just wink and they'd pass out.

"What about touring?" My dad asks suddenly, catching him off guard. "Will you be going on the road soon? That's usually the way of it, isn't it, when a group brings out an album?"

An odd shiver sweeps over me, the mere mention of Brett going away makes me turn icy cold.  
Oh God, what would I do without him? I'd miss him so much. And then there's all the women, the....groupies.  
Bleurgh.  
As irrational as it sounds, the very thought of it makes me feel a bit sick.

Brett rubs along his jawline with a large hand. "Mm, yeah, we've no dates confirmed as yet though, so...."  
He shifts awkwardly in the chair, then rather hurriedly changes the subject. He's good at doing that.  
"So, have you got any plans yet for your birthday, Sammy?"

I make a face, and heave an exasperated sigh. "Not really. I kind of wanted to go and see mum, and maybe go out with my friends."  
I push a few remaining potatoes around my plate dejectedly.  
"I haven't spoke to any of them since I've been down here, I think they'll have probably forgotten all about my birthday to be honest."

This isn't an exaggeration on my part, and I'm not after sympathy or comfort. The truth of the matter is, I am the sort of girl who is just easily forgotten about.

Brett sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and looks thoughtful. "Well, I've been offered a gig up in Manchester this weekend. Remember the club I was telling you about, the one where I used to DJ?"

I nod.

"Well a friend of mine, Kevin, he's invited me back as a one off. He's hoping it'll attract a few more punters, and it'll be a good opportunity for me to promote the album. If you want to go and visit your mum and friends, we could travel up together if you fancy it?"

"Really? Oh, yes please. That's a great idea!" 

Mindful of my dad, Brett turns to face him now. "I can sort out the travel arrangements and everything. That is, as long as you're alright with that, Alan?"

From across the table, dad nods approvingly. "Yeah I don't see why not." Then without thinking, adds "At least I know she'll be in good hands."

"Very, very good hands." Jane points out, with a mischievous grin.

"I don't mean quite so literally!" My dad clarifies, shooting her a withering look, before looking back to Brett, his expression serious. "I'm trusting you to look after my little girl. So no funny business."  
He sounds every bit like a Puritan vicar, and I wonder if I might be having an attack of the vapours.

Brett holds his hands up in mock surrender. "I swear, Sammy will be well taken care of. Scouts honour, Alan."

"Hm. Separate rooms, you got that? I know what it's like, I was young myself once, I remember what the first flushes of young love is like."

"Dad! It's not like that, we...we're just friends." I stammer. "Anyway I'll be staying at home, won't I? With mum."

But he's already on his way out of the door, the Prosecco having gone straight through him, forcing him to visit the loo for at least the third time in as many hours.

"Ah, the first flushes of young love." Jane adds whimsically, and her slightly bleary eyes take on a hazy look. "So much fun, so much romance. It's wonderful. You two go, and have a marvellous time. Make the most of your time away."

"I said, we're just friends!" I repeat more slowly this time, enunciating the words as if explaining to a slow-witted child.

"But who knows where it might lead?" Jane ploughs on undeterred, and I'm beginning to wonder just how many glasses of wine she's had.  
"You're only young once, have some fun. You mustn't blame your father for being quite old fashioned, but don't let him put you off. You can't beat the early stages of a new romance....all that unbridled passion."

"Unbridled passion?" I parrot, my face a rictus of horror.

"Yes yes, you know what I mean....all the mad shagging."

Hearing such a word spoken in Jane's rather well-polished voice, is almost as entertaining as it is appalling, and I almost drop my knife and fork in shock.

Brett makes a choked noise, which sounds suspiciously like a suppressed burst of laughter that has bubbled up in his chest and made him cough. He quickly attempts to cover it by taking a huge gulp of wine, and I think I may need smelling salts quite soon.

"I don't believe you've just said that!"  I shriek in my prissiest voice.

"Oh for goodness sake Samantha, we're all adults here aren't we? It's a universal fact that's what all couples do in the beginning, they're at it like rabbits on Viagra."

"Well we're not! We're not even a couple! For the last time, we're just friends!" My voice comes out in such a high-pitched squeak, I'm pretty certain it might only be audible to bats.  
"Aren't we, Brett?"

I chance a quick sideways glance at Brett, expecting him to be spelling out the word 'help' on his plate with peas, but instead he's looking surprisingly unruffled.  
"Uh, yeah. Just friends."  
I can hardly force myself to look him in the eyes, but oddly enough he looks directly at me as he speaks to Jane.  
"Sammy and I, well....we seem to make a habit of over-complicating things."

What the heck does he mean by that?  
Still, he's handling the situation much better than I am, who in contrast might well need therapy to get over this.

 

"I am so sorry about all of that." I find myself saying yet again, as I see Brett out when the time comes for him to leave.

"Don't be." He shrugs, and gives a wry smile. "There's nothing to apologise for. I've told you before Sammy, you worry too much."

I unlock the door at the bottom of the stairs for him and he's about to step passed me, when he hesitates.  
"Well your dad can rest easy, I promise I won't try to seduce you."  
He cocks his head and gives me a stoic look, which suggests seduction is the very last thing on his mind.  
Which it probably is, given that he's probably still in love with the beguiling Justine, and maybe always will be.  
And then the stoic look becomes more wolfish.  
"Unless, you want me to that is?"

"Er, so much for my dad being able to rest easy!"  I manage to hit a feigned indignant top note, one that any Oscar winning actress would be proud of. Even though other feelings overwhelm me, and make my stomach clench in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant.  
"What kind of promise is that?" I laugh breezily, as if the idea of me wanting him to seduce me is the craziest, most hilarious thing in the world.

"Obviously I'm messin' with you, Sammy."  
He doesn't even bother to hide his smirk, which douses my ardour more effectively than if he'd thrown a glass of cold water in my face.  
"I haven't forgotten you telling me quite categorically that you're not the kind of girl who wants no-strings sex, and you wouldn't be persuaded by anyone....especially me."

My face burns at the memory. "Please don't remind me about what I said. I was quite sharp with you over that."

"No, I really respected you for  it. Because you're right, it's easy to cop off on a first date, or go out and get laid. But it leaves you feeling a bit hollow inside. Personally, I've always found meaningful sex much more fulfilling."  
His voice is spellbinding and lulling at the best of times, but now he's talking about sex, and in such an abandoned kind of way that it's making me feel all sorts of things.  
Things that make me squirm. That make my body become heavier. More languid.

Little does he know that if I had a time machine, I would go back to that first night in the pub and take back what I said about him not being the guy to convert me into casually putting-out.  
In fact, I'd happily agree to having sex on the grubby beer-stained floor with him if he'd have suggested it.  
Shit, what has happened to me?  
He's got me lusting after him in ways I'd never dreamed I would lust after anyone, and I'd be willing to do the sort of things with Brett that would make my mother ashamed.

Without intending to, I find myself picturing Brett in a pub, giving sultry looks and a seductive half-smile at me from across the bar, then taking me back to his room. The pair of us kissing and grinding against each other, pulling at each other's clothes the minute we close the door. His naked, lithe body on top....

Ugh. That's quite enough of that...  
Jesus. Does he have any idea what he does to me?  
I sincerely hope not.  
I can't let him know what he does to me.

"You alright, Sammy?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. "You've gone all quiet on me."

I force a cough to clear my throat. "Y-yes. Fine, why wouldn't I be? Look, um, thanks again for tonight Brett....well, thanks for everything really. I've really enjoyed tonight. It's been fun...well, mostly fun."  
I gently steer him out through the door.

"Thank you. I've enjoyed it too, and it was fun."

"Yes but....thank you for caring enough to help me."  I say shakily, and gingerly lean in to give him a quick hug.

He responds immediately by placing his hands at my waist, tugging me close enough so that my face is comfortably tucked into the space between his neck and his shoulder.  
Where the smell of him, all leather, fresh soap, spicy zing of aftershave and something else, a smell that's all Brett, is at it's most intoxicating.

I can feel his breath stir my hair. "Look at me, Sammy." He says in a tone that I can't refuse. 

I tilt my head back obediently, and he gazes down at me with a concentrated focus that might be described as hunger.  
I hunger for him as well.

"I do care, and you don't need to thank me for that. If I didn't want to be here, like, truly be here, then I wouldn't. But I do."

It's as if he affects the air around him, and I can feel the way he changes the energy around us. He's sending ripples through the air that crash into me, and crackle against my skin.

He brings his face down towards mine so our noses are almost touching, I hear the rushing noise of blood in my ears and hold my breath as he tilts his head, angled so that our mouths will fit together.  
I feel like we're magnets, powerless to the pull.

Instinctively my eyes flicker shut, and then it's happening.  
His lips gently brush mine with the lightest of kisses, and all the sensations I wanted to revel in before but didn't have the time to, surge through my body.  
There is a slight pause, the stillness like the break between thunder and lightening.

One....two....three...  
Bang.

I'm about to open my eyes to see what's wrong, half-expecting to see him gazing down his dignified nose at me disapprovingly, when suddenly his mouth finds mine again.  
This time all his initial politeness has gone, and his kiss is more powerful, sensual, and alive.

At first I am so incredibly tense, my entire body goes rigid.  
We barely move, and I forget how to breath, but then without thinking I reach up and grab handfuls of his luscious hair, tousling it between my fingertips as I stand on my tip-toes and strain upwards, returning his passion.  
He takes this as all the invitation he needs, and suddenly his strong, lean body is rolling against mine, and he's gathering me up in his arms.

Our kiss goes from sugary sweet to something more deep, intense and carnal, but there's still that lingering sweetness there.  
His mouth fits against mine as if we were made from the same mould, I could kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him until I die.  
We breath as one, and I feel myself physically tremble against him as I'm crushed against the wall of his chest, and he presses the muscles of his thighs against mine, but he holds me steady in those capable hands.

I can barely comprehend that this is happening, as we both simultaneously pull back slightly, needing air.  
Damn, why is breathing so necessary? Why can't we evolve and develop gills or something?

He rests his forehead against mine, and I run my hands down his shoulders, before resting them on his chest. He is breathing heavily, and so am I, and we just stand there for a moment, locked in a tender embrace, neither of us able to speak.

I don't want to think about what happens next, I just want to live here, in this moment forever, and I want to make it last a bit longer. At the risk of throwing all dignity to the wind, I lean up and kiss him again. He kisses me back deeply, and this time I allow him to gently ease my lips apart so he can tentatively snake his tongue inside my mouth.

He tastes sweet, a little of wine, chewing gum and cigarettes, which is an odd combination but by no means unpleasant.  
He's utterly delectable.  
My knees crumble beneath me, as our mouths tighten and tongues twine around each other's.  
I can feel the torturous, wonderful scratchiness of the slight stubble of his chin, brushing against my face. Serving as a reminder that this is actually happening, and not just some exquisite daydream.

I feel his fingers firmly caress the nape of my neck, sending sweet electrifying shivers along my spine, and I'm melting into him. All the while his tongue and lips arouse, and take. Tempting, tasting, teasing....

Dear God, I am lost. Send out a search party. I would let this man do whatever he would like to me, and then I would beg for more.  
He feels right. He feels so right after so much wrong. And I can't even begin comparing him to any other. He is so beyond compare.

If this is real life, I certainly don't remember signing up for this version of it.  
But I'm sort of glad that I did.

He pauses and we break the kiss, panting, then stand in silence for a while, processing what's happened.  
I sincerely hope he still has a fully functioning brain, because I do not.

"I...."  I'm incapable of full sentences.  
My heart is racing, and I can still feel the tingle at the back of my neck from where he had his hand, firm but tender.  
I close my eyes for a moment, and pull myself together.  
"Is....is this going to change things between us?" I say with a half-breath, taking a small step back from him.

I can't lose him. I just can't.

Brett is looking at me with, well, in the softening light, shadows creeping in, it looks like tenderness. If that's possible?  
"I certainly hope so." He grins foxily, his voice is low and rough, and I feel myself sway slightly.

"Listen, I'm gonna be busy with the album release over the next couple of days, but I'll give you a bell before weekend, yeah? Leave it with me and I'll sort out the train tickets for Manchester."

I smile goofily at him, and nod my head dumbly.  
I can't help wondering what I must look like.  
His lips are all kiss-swollen, his hair like a cats-cradle from me sculpting it into a sexy, tousled mess.  
He looks like he's just stepped straight out of the centrefold of a magazine, whereas I feel all rumpled like something that has been fished out of a waste paper bin.

He is so precious to me, and I find that quite terrifying.  
I'm also worried that by talking too much I'll somehow break the spell. Everything will become unforgivingly real, and then I'll have to deal with whatever the hell is happening here.

He dips down and sweetly presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head, perhaps sensing that if he kisses me on the lips again we'll be at it all night, smooching up a storm, and then my knees will most definitely buckle on me, the traitors.

"See 'ya later then, Sammy." He winks, those intense, seductive eyes of his turning sweet and innocent at a moments notice.  
He's looking completely unfazed, and oh so cool and causal, as though we haven't just snogged each other silly.

"Mm hm." Is all I can manage, but as he slopes off, I do notice his uncharacteristically awkward, slightly loping walk, as if he isn't quite used to having legs yet.

I stand there, gazing at the spot where he had been. My stomach is turning cartwheels, and it takes enormous effort to stumble back up the stairs numbly, barely able to use my legs anymore.  
I quickly shut myself into the bathroom, and collapse against the door.

Did Brett just kiss me again? Did I just kiss Brett?  
We actually just kissed, properly.  
A full-on, messy, sexy, tongues and teeth and lips kiss.  
I can feel a huge grin spreading across my face, and I badly want to let out the girly squeal that's stuck in my lungs.

I'm still grinning as I change for bed, which takes me longer than it ought to, but I am practically radiating nervous energy, and I almost fall over at one point, bumping my head against the door as I step out of my jeans.

 

That night I lie awake, warm and cosy in my bed. Still grinning in the darkness, and undoubtedly warmed by thoughts of what we've begun.  
Who knows what we'll become, but I'm not going to fret over that. Not yet. I'm going to enjoy this and bask in the glorious glow of what the universe has granted me.

I hear my dad and Jane talking animatedly through the wall, her raising her voice to protest about Dad staying up late to watch Ladies darts.  
So nothing much has changed really, hardly anything at all.

Except now I know how it feels to be held tightly in Brett's arms, and have his breath, all racing and hot, inside my mouth.  
So yes, there's that....  
And I feel completely different because of that.  
All shiny and new, as Madonna would say. As if he's breathed life into me.  
Or perhaps what I'm feeling is more 'True Blue', than 'Like A Virgin'

 

It takes me absolutely ages to calm down. I'm still buzzing with excitement, and I feel as if I need to go and stand on a mountain top and scream, and punch the air.  
But eventually my nerves settle enough for me to drift off to sleep, my head, and heart still very much full of Brett, to the point of bursting with happiness.

Oh, wait.  
Did I just say.....heart?


	13. Crazy Little Thing Called Love

We decide to travel up to Manchester by train.  
Unbelievably we could have flown, as Brett seemed quite happy to pay for tickets just to lessen the traveling time, but as he's insisted on paying for the trip, there's just no way I'm going to let him fork out for the luxury of taking a flight when there's coach and rail options. 

After telling him he needn't go splashing his cash around, just because the record company have now paid a rather substantial amount in advance for the forthcoming album, he settles on taking the train, because he has no desire to spend any free time he has stuck on a coach.  
Not when he's going to be touring the country "at some point" and the prospect of being confined to a tour bus for umpteen hours a day and continuously on the road, is filling him with dread.

I don't admit it to him on the phone when he tells me this, but him bringing the subject up is enough to fill me with dread too.  
Though for entirely different reasons.

 

As agreed, we arrive early at Kings Cross Station on Saturday morning, which gives us plenty of time to kill before our train arrives.

"D'ya fancy a cup of tea?" Brett asks, pointing towards the concourse area where there's a WH Smiths, and several stands that sell drinks, food and cigarettes.

"Yeah sure, although maybe you'd benefit more from having a coffee." I suggest.  
.  
I can't help noticing how very tired he looks, and whilst he does have a reputation for being a night owl and isn't exactly a morning person, his eyes are hampered with dark circles and he appears to be not quite with it, as if his thoughts are elsewhere. The light's on but nobody's home.

I'm feeling undeniably quite jumpy and distracted myself, even when I spoke to him on the phone to make plans for today's journey my heart was beating wildly at the memory of our lip-locking session, and what it all means for us.  
And when I see him again in the flesh the feelings seem to intensify tenfold. Every little detail is magnified now.

From the moment I set eyes on his lean, tall frame - at it's best in a well-cut black suit jacket, which hangs snugly on his broad shoulders - I actually felt my jaw go slack.

I continue my silent assessment now with increasing excitement, from his lush chocolatey hair, white pinstripe shirt with slightly oversized collar and cuffs, and the denim jeans that fit his long legs perfectly, right down to the battered oxblood Doc Marten boots on his feet, I take in every inch of him. And my mouth practically waters.

Good God, I kissed that man. Is all I can think.  
I kissed him......a lot.

Then he looks at me from beneath those long lashes that graze his Himalayan cheekbones, and gives me a big salacious grin.  
I want to kiss him again, desperately.  
But I'm not sure how all this works now.

We walk through the station, me wheeling my case along behind me, and Brett carrying a small hold-all over his shoulder, until we reach a stand that sells hot drinks.

"What would you like?" Brett turns to me, having taken my advice and ordered himself a black coffee with no sugar.

"Um...I..." I'm struggling to get my words out, because I want to say that what I'd like, what I'd really really like....is for him to kiss me.  
Right here. Right now. Even though I've always been too self conscious to indulge in public displays of affection.

"Yoo-hoo, Sammy, are you with us?" He asks, waving a hand in front of my face when I don't respond coherently, and he raises his eyebrows at me. "Would you like a drink or not, sweet?"

Wait, did he just refer to me as 'sweet'?  
I feel a flush across my chest and up my neck."S-sorry, I'll have a tea please, milk, and two sugars."

"Sugar? Are you sure? You're not allowed sugar."

"No, it'll be fine. I need the energy. I haven't eaten yet." 

The grumpy man who is serving us grunts a reply, which I think is him asking if Brett wants a lid.  
But I don't hear his response, as I watch Brett rummage in his pockets for loose change, pushing his hair away from his eyes, and I find myself daydreaming again. Caught up in inappropriate thoughts.

I'd ran my hands through that hair. Breathed in his delicious male scent. Drowned in the sparkling pools of those poet's eyes. Felt the pleasure of his barely-visible, rough stubble graze my chin...

I'd had his tongue in my mouth.

No, no don't think about that!  
But it's too late, my stomach cramps with lust just as he hands me a steaming polystyrene cup.

"You alright? You seem a bit...on edge." He cocks his head to one side quizzically.

"Um, on edge? No I'm not. Why would I be? What is there to be on edge about?"  
I hastily open my tea and take a large gulp.  
It's blisteringly hot and burns the back of my throat, but I'm not going to let on.  
Just like I'm not going to let on that I find him even hotter than the liquid that's just scorched my mouth.

"I dunno. You tell me." He winks at me, and playfully bumps me in the side with his hip, and holy mother of God, it does the strangest things to my body. Causing a heat to spear low and hard.

I make a strange noise, and I don't even know how to describe it.  
It just sort of escapes my mouth. It sounds like a small, dying animal.  
My eyes bulge and I know I've turned beetroot-red.

This simple contact should not have me squirming like this, and I shouldn't be distracted by Brett's gorgeousness.  
But I can't help it, I'm out of control.  
Even when he's not wearing one of his chest or navel-flashing clothes-porn outfits, he looks extremely gropable, and like an addict with temptation within my grasp, I find my fingers twitching with anticipation to touch him. To just reach out and really....feel him.

And despite my best but feeble efforts, judging by the coy smile and emerging dimple, he knows.  
He knows what he does to me.  
Arrogant, sexy beast that he is.  
Even though he's not arrogant at all, but guilty as charged when it comes to being sexy.

He takes his change from the vendor, and then unexpectedly suddenly dips down and feathers his lips softly across mine, testing me. Awaiting my response, as if he's expecting me to pull away.  
But I don't.  
Instead I use my free hand to tug firmly on his collar, bringing him closer, and I feel his mouth curve beneath mine.

Every kiss I've shared with him, always seems to be the best kiss I've ever had. And this one is no exception.  
It's skilled, full of heat and knowledge, one that makes my heart pound and my blood boil. And when he gently snakes his hand into my hair, my eyes flutter shut and I'm gone.  
His lips make me forget who I am, who he is, and everything else in between. Such as where we are.

And for once, I am completely living in the moment. Refusing to let my doubts or concerns about where all this will lead, to creep in.

"Agh hum."  
The sound of an exaggerated cough brings us abruptly back down to earth, and we're forced to break apart.

I look up to see the disgruntled looking vendor, his expression a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment, and it is then I realise people have been streaming into the station, and quite a queue has gathered behind us.

Oops.

"Sorry." Brett mutters, as we stumble away grinning like idiots, trying to blank out the sea of disapproving faces.

It would seem we make a habit of inadvertently getting in everyone's way when we're out in public. It's as if when we're together everything else ceases to exist, and we are the only two people in the world.  
Brett and Sam.  
Sam and Brett.  
Or Wolfie and Sammy.  
But it all adds up to the same thing. And call me crazy but for me, when we're together it feels like all the planets in the universe align. Everything is right with the world.

But like most things in life, just when all seems good, something has to come along and fuck it up.

No sooner have we made our way towards the ever-changing information board, when we're unexpectedly joined by a woman.

"Brett? Brett! I thought that was you." She exclaims, placing a hand on his arm fondly. 

She looks like she's in her early twenties, has ginger hair that's cropped short into a cute pixie cut which seems to enhance her elfin-like features.  
She's wearing ripped black jeans, and a Clash T.shirt, and is carrying a guitar case over her shoulder.

My eyes dart to Brett, who looks momentarily surprised. His dark brows shoot up almost comically.  
"Donna." He says eventually, and he forces a strained smile which must be difficult given that his jaw seems to have clenched.  
"How are ya doin'?"

'Donna' beams back at him, her large almond eyes twinkling. "Great thanks. Did Justine tell you I'm in the band now? You saw her last night, right? She said she was going round to yours. Knowing her, she probably forgot to mention about me joining the band though."

My stomach drops and I squeeze the fragile polystyrene cup a little too tightly, causing some of the hot tea to spill over the top and onto my hand. It burns but I hardly notice.

Brett....was with Justine last night?

He's still smiling but he isn't happy.  
"Um, no she didn't actually. It must've slipped her mind. But we didn't do that much talking to be honest."  
He shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, and if he had hit me, it would've been less painful.  
"Congratulations on joining Elastica, you'll be great."

Elastic-what??

Donna is nodding now. "Aww, thanks babes. And I'm glad Justine got to see you before you leave next week. I'll bet you're so excited about the tour, I believe you're going to Europe and America once you've played the UK dates? That's fucking awesome!" 

"Hm. There's nothing confirmed yet about the states, but hopefully if the European leg of the tour goes well, then yeah..." His words trail off, as he bites nervously on his thumbnail.

I feel like I am full of rocks, and they are weighing me down. All I want to do is run, but I can't.  
I'm weighed down by my baggage, a full cup of tea, and Brett Anderson's fucking confessionals.

I turn away slightly, which is enough to remind Brett of his manners.

"Oh, sorry. Donna...this is Sam.." He extends his free hand towards me, then gestures towards her. "Sam, this is Donna."

"Sam? Ah, you're seeing Damon now aren't you?" She asks, the bright smile never leaving her face. "I've heard so much about you."

"Oh? Um, yes." I say, but it comes out a little too breathy. "Well, it's nice to meet you."

"You too." 

In spite of everything, I realise I quite like Donna. She may be the unwitting bearer of bad news, and might as well be dressed-up as an angel of death, but she seems warm, friendly and genuine.

We say our goodbyes, after Brett points out to her that we have a train to catch, and my legs don't seem to move fast enough for my liking.  
Brett, who has been blessed with ludicrously long legs, is easily able to keep up, as I try in vain to put some distance between us.  
I just don't want to be near him. I'm so angry I'm shaking.

"Sammy?" He says my name, the nickname that he gave me, and I almost turn around and smack him across the mouth.  
But violence isn't the answer.

"Looks like our train is here at last ." I call over my shoulder huffily. "We'd better hurry."

Brett follows me with a puzzled expression on his face as I stomp off in the direction of the platform.

We load ourselves and then our luggage onto the right train, and then look for our seats. They are facing each other over a table, and I shrug noncommittally as Brett tries to ask me if I want to sit so I'm travelling forwards or backwards.

"Sammy, what's wrong?" He asks once we've sat down.

I look out of the window and watch people scurrying along the platform to their carriages, and fleetingly wonder what their reasons are for catching the same train as us.  
I bet none of them are in the same situation that I'm in right now, I think, as I silently watch them.

I glance at Brett, but he isn't looking out of the window, he's looking at me expectantly. His face filled with concern.

Perhaps I'm being ridiculous. I knew that he'd have to go away some time or another with his band, but Europe...and America.  
It's so far away.  
Far away from the UK, and London, and.....me.

And then there's Justine. He admitted he was with her last night, and said that they didn't do much talking.  
Surely that can only mean one thing?

The train lurches forwards suddenly, which almost makes me throw up in my mouth. I feel sick to the stomach, and it isn't just because I haven't eaten, or taken my insulin yet, or that the train has moved.

I shouldn't be surprised really. It's never been a secret that Brett hasn't moved on from Justine, and it's none of my business who he spends his nights with.  
It could be Justine, it could be the pope. It shouldn't matter to me.  
Okay, if it were the pope I'd have some morbid interest.  
But as he's so rightly pointed out to me in the past, he is not my boyfriend.

This realisation morphs from disappointment into I-really-shouldn't-give-a-shit territory.  
I'm not his girlfriend. I'm just a girl he's kissed once or twice.  
Well, I frown to myself as I tug at the sleeves on my denim jacket, four times to be exact.  
But hey, who's counting?  
We've shared a few moments that's all, and I should just leave it at that and move on.

Except I can't.  
Why does this hurt so much? So very much?  
I've kept Brett in the friend zone for so long, trying to convince myself and everyone around me that we are friends and nothing more. But that all changed from the moment I thought he'd slept with Danielle. It changed dramatically when he kissed me during our row in Camden Town. And it changed again, after we'd spent the evening cooking together, and we kissed each other silly on my dad's doorstep.

So why was I stupid enough to change his category? To even let my feelings fly free for just a millisecond? To entertain the thought, the....desire, to be more?  
I'm just funny, awkward, shy, sarcastic Sammy.  
I'm no match for women like Justine.  
And I shouldn't aspire to be.  
All the dieting, hair dye, and style-altering in the world won't change who I am.

"Sammy?" Brett says again, and he reaches across the table to place his hand on mine. As usual his touch seems to warm me straight through to my bones, and I wish it didn't.  
"You've gone all quiet on me again. I can always sense when there's something wrong, so please...just tell me."

The bitter despair is replaced now by irritation, and the anger returns, bubbling up inside my chest until it chokes me, and I can't bring myself to respond.  
Does he really need to ask? Shouldn't it be obvious?

Clearly not.

Incredible. Brett is an intelligent man, he has a degree from the world-renowned Bartlet School of Architecture for God's sake.  
And yet he is one of the most stupid people that I have ever met, severely lacking the most basic common sense.

He'd kissed me, just moments before Justine's friend had blown my world apart by disclosing that he'd been with his ex just last night.  
And why would he even entertain the woman who had hurt him so badly by sleeping with one of his friends?  
Is he still so blindly in love with her that he'd be willing to forgive her? To spend the night with her?  
Sleep with her again?  
Ugh.

God I would love to know what it feels like to be one of those women with a magical vagina, who get away with murder by screwing around with other men, and the normal, nice guys in their life always come running back in the end.

"You're going away." My voice is in full working order now, though I hardly recognise the cold, bitter tone to my words. "You must've known for some time, but you never told me."

His shoulders slump forwards slightly, and he stares down at the table. Lacing his slender fingers through mine, but I don't move. Instead I go rigid, doing my best ice-maiden impersonation.  
But my cold-dagger stare has no impact on Brett, it never has had.  
He's made of much stronger stuff than the other guys I've known.  
A lesser man would wither.

"I didn't know how to tell you." Is the lame sentence that comes out of his perfect, damn mouth, and if I were prone to fits of the melodramatics I'd probably throw my now-lukewarm tea in his face, and flounce off somewhere.  
"The actual dates were only confirmed a couple of days ago, and it's almost like, if I don't talk about it, any of it, then it's not real. You need to understand, these past few weeks have been completely insane for me. I've gone from being just a regular bloke to doing interviews and photoshoots, and it's all quite overwhelming."

"I do get that, I realise it must be extremely weird for you." I snap. "But you even told Justine before you told me." 

There, I said it.

His eyes snap up at the mention of her name. "Only because she'd heard rumours from Damon, so when she asked me, obviously I told her it was true." He explains leadenly.

"Damon?" I cry, incredulous. "Since when was he in touch with Justine?"

"He's never not been in touch with her." Brett replies tersely, and his grip on my hand noticeably tightens. "Justine broke up with Damon because of his laddish behaviour, he started drinking more and being a typical lager lout. He was always in the pub, and they argued about it all the time, until she couldn't stand it anymore. But they're still friends."

I manage to extricate my hand from his grasp. "Well, so what if she dumped him because he was boozing a lot? What's that got to do with anything?"

Brett stares at me askance, as if I've just fell to earth. "Well he is supposed to be your boyfriend-"

"Don't keep saying that." I interrupt sharply. "I haven't seen him in ages, and we've never been like a proper couple anyway."

"No, I know that, but you never actually told him you didn't want to see him anymore, did you?" His tone is clipped and he even has the audacity to shoot me an accusing look. "And just now, when Donna asked if you were his girlfriend, you didn't say no. I didn't hear you denying it."

Now I am furious, itching with anger. And if we were anywhere else I'd desperately want to start throwing things. Preferably at Brett's beautiful but incredibly dense head.

"Why are you suddenly making this all about Damon and me? You're the one who was with Justine last night, so why should any of that bother you? In fact, I don't know how you've got the nerve to go on about it, when you....you kissed me, again just now, even though you slept with your ex last night. Or isn't she your ex now? Are you back together?"

"For your information, she came round to speak to me about you." He says, face cold, his expression haughty. "And do you really believe that I'd take her back? That I'd sleep with her? After what she did to me and put me through? And after everything else?"

I falter for a moment, surprised by his words, as well as confused. "What do you mean, everything else? And why would she want to talk about me, of all people? It makes no sense. Unless she wants you back, and is jealous for some reason. Is that what you wanted, Brett? To make her jealous? Is that why you took me with you that day you met with her at Camden lock?"

My head is pounding now, along with my heart. 

"So, you still don't trust me." He says coolly, but his eyes are sad and sorrowful. "Even now, after everything....how could you think that I'd use you like that? For fucks sake, Sammy. This is me. You know me better than that."

An eerie silence follows, as neither of us speak.  
Instead we both sit staring out of the window as the train begins to pull out of the station.  
As it starts to pick up speed and the tower blocks of London turn into the hedges of the country, I wish I could remember the bit in the Worst Case Scenario Handbook about jumping out of moving vehicles.

Finally, when I can't stand the tense atmosphere any longer, I manage to muster an adequate response.

"It's not that I don't trust you. I just don't know what to think. And I know you're not over Justine." 

"Is that right?" Brett huffs. "Damon tell you that, did he? Well, actually it's the other way around. Justine came to see me to ask about you, because Damon told her he was seeing you. He wanted to make her jealous. Not me. I'm not the bad guy here, never have been. I'm just the bloke who genuinely liked you right from the start."

"W-what?" I blink rapidly, trying to process all this new information.

"You heard me, Sammy. You're not the one with the hearing impediment. Damon just beat me to it, which figures." He swallows, and I see his Adam's apple Bob slightly.  
I bite my lip and frown.  
Serious Brett.  
"I was so busy worrying over that bloody Melody Maker article, I didn't get chance to speak to you before he swooped in, the smarmy bastard."

He takes a sip of coffee, which must be stone cold by now, and his eyes meet mine over the rim of his cup.  
They watch my every move, from my fingers curling nervously around my own empty cup, to the way I nervously shove a lock of hair behind my ear.  
There's something about the look in them that drives me crazy. The way he watches and observes as if nothing gets by him.

"You've no idea, how many times I've heard that line....'ello darlin'..."  
He mimics Damon in an absurd accent, which makes me giggle in spite of the fact you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.  
And I wish I could swallow my own tongue, because Brett isn't laughing. He still looks as serious as a heart attack.  
"It works, every time. Though it never really bothered me until he used it on you, and when I saw you being drawn in, I wanted to knock his crooked teeth down his fuckin' throat."

I can see that Brett has even surprised himself with the pettiness of his slur regarding Damon's appearance. He looks rather shamefaced now, as if resorting to jibes like that are beneath him.  
My teeth are not quite straight either, so I know he doesn't mean anything personal by his remark.  
He just resents Damon, with a passion.

"Remember that first night back at the house? I was a bit off with you wasn't I?" He continues, looking thoughtful. "I was pissed off because you seemed like a really nice, genuine girl, but I knew he still wanted Justine. He still does. And she's just as bad. She hasn't moved on. She came to me, asking about you and him because Damon told her that we'd become close."

I clear my throat, my mouth feels so incredibly dry.  
My hands are trembling, nerves rattled.  
To say that all of this has come as a bit of a shock would be a monumental understatement.  
"What did you say to her?"

Brett leans his elbows on the table now, resting his head on his interlinked hands. "I gave her short-shrift to be honest. I just told her the same thing I told Damon."

"Which was?"

"I pointed out to him that he has a new girlfriend, one that's sweet and funny, and lovely. And I hastened to add that if he was simply using you as a distraction to take his mind off Justine, or to try and make her jealous, then he really is an absolute cunt."

Whoa.  
I can't believe he just dropped the C bomb!  
I flinch at the vulgarity of the word, and Brett does too, burying his face in his hands, he mumbles his apologies. Immediately regretting his choice of words.  
"Sorry, I shouldn't be so crass, but I was horrified by the idea of him trying to win Justine back and him tagging you along for the ride, and then throwing you away like some used tissue."

"When did you say all of this to him?" I croak. "And why the hell didn't you think to tell me about it?"

He throws his head back and laughs mirthlessly. "Would you have believed me? I'm the bitter ex-boyfriend, remember? Damon is, or was, your boyfriend. Mister nice-guy, Mister popular. And it seems to escape everyone's notice that he is a spiteful, selfish, raging narcissist."

Wow.  
Brett really is on a roll, and isn't holding back. Letting loose all the emotion that he's tamped down for so long.  
I stare, agog at the taut, tight set of his mouth. The insistent muscle that pounds away in his neck. And also the hot red blush, that has turned his face dusky.

"But I,...all along I've been thinking that you're still in love with Justine."

He sighs heavily, face weary now. He looks like a man who's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I long to pull him into my arms and hug him to death.

"At first, I thought I would always love her. I was convinced I didn't know how to not love her." He admits, tiredly. As if he's spent long, sleepless nights puzzling this out. "But I've realised now, that's not the case."

I raise timid eyes to his face, but I'm not brave enough to ask what's brought on this revelation. This change of heart.

A porter arrives at the carriage and comes through, trundling a food trolley, so we buy some lunch for the journey and settle back to eat it.  
Although I really don't have much of an appetite.  
I'm all churned-up inside, and my head feels overloaded to the point of exploding.  
I haven't even got around to opening my sandwich, before Brett suddenly asks me a question which completely floors me.

"So....how do you feel about Damon?" He's sat leaning back in his seat now, tucking into an egg baguette.

"W-why ask me that? I don't know, Brett. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel." I get the feeling this is a bit of a trick question, that I don't know how to answer.

He brushes away a few stray crumbs from his shirt, and glances at me. "Well you must find him attractive. And you obviously like him enough to go out with him."

"Maybe I did, but I don't really know him all that well, do I? In fact, you've pretty much proved that I don't know him at all. I suppose he is likeable enough, but it's not like..." I falter, all too aware of his scrutinising gaze. "...what I mean is, I don't like him in the same way as I like you."  
I avert my eyes, and try to concentrate on carefully picking out the chunky pieces of onion they always insist on putting with cheese.

"D'you think that maybe he's just been a distraction for you?" He says after a long, contemplative pause. "I can see how that might work. You didn't know anybody in London, you were nursing a broken heart. Perhaps you thought Damon could help fix it for you."

Is he mocking me? I wouldn't have thought he'd be capable of being that cruel.  
Or maybe he is genuinely trying to understand my reasoning.  
If he manages to figure it out, I do hope he'll tell me. Because even I can't fully comprehend why I dived head-first into a bizarre semi-relationship with the first good looking man who showed an interest.

Although maybe deep down I do. To some extent, as much as it pains me to admit it, Brett is probably right.  
Except he's missing the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which is my low self-esteem.  
I'd been so flattered by Damon's attentions, I couldn't believe that someone like him could view me as potential girlfriend material.

"Can we please talk about something else and not do this now?" I say, abandoning the sandwich which I've barely touched.  
An action that annoyingly doesn't go unnoticed by the ever-perceptive Brett.

"Why aren't you eating? Isn't it nice? You can share mine if you like?"

"No thank you. I'm not all that hungry, besides it won't hurt for me to lose a bit of weight."

Brett rolls his eyes at me. "Don't be daft. I already told you, you're perfect just the way you are."

"Pfft. Really?" I scoff openly, and suddenly all the pent-up anxiety and frustration comes flooding out, like a river that's burst its banks. "Damon doesn't seem to think so. I should have known he wasn't really into me, and why would he be? I'm not beautiful and classy and cool like Justine."

He sits up straighter, wraps the remains of his baguette back up, and sets it down on the table. "Where's all this coming from? You've been remarkably not emotional about any of it until now." He squints at me slightly. "How come you're getting all worked up? I thought you just admitted to not liking him all that much?"

"It's not about him, not really. Oh it doesn't matter, just take no notice of me."

"Well clearly it does matter, otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up."  
He crosses his arms and stares at me, and I stare back at him.  
We could do this all day, but I know in the end he will win.  
I will break first. Persistent sod.  
Oh, what is the point of even trying to lie to him?

"Damon showed an interest in me, and I felt...sort of privileged I suppose. I'm not used to men asking me out, or whatever. I've only ever been out with guys the same age."  
I suck in a deep breath to steady my nerves. "And then you came along and....well, you were both there, but I thought Damon was more my 'type'"  
I lift my hands and make quote marks in the air, to emphasise the cheesiness of the phrase. "You're so different to anyone else I've ever met, and that scared me a little. Well, a lot actually. And it still does. I've never felt more inferior or inadequate in my whole life."

"What? Why?" He cuts in, a look of anguish imposed on his handsome face. "Sammy I would never intentionally make you feel like that, you're not inadequate. Christ! Why would you think that?"

I wave my hands around wildly in an attempt to urge him to shush and let me finish. "I know you wouldn't mean to, the problem is with me. I just don't like myself very much. And all I wanted was to be someone better. Someone prettier. Someone smarter. But there's just no way I can compete with the likes of Justine."

I see him clench his fists and press his lips together. "My God, I am so done with hearing about Justine."  
He's looking suitably perplexed, and I'm struck by his air of exhaustion.  
"Is that what all this has been about? The different hairdo? The clothes? The obsessing about your weight? Please tell me that it hasn't."

I shrug, and he groans. "Look, you don't know what it's like, Brett. I thought if I could be more like her, more sexy and mature, then men would find me attractive."

No. That's not right.  
Not men. Him.  
This was all for Brett.

"Sammy, you are attractive. Very, very attractive. It's all in your head. What do I have to do or say to convince you? Bloody hell, you know how I feel about you."

"Do I?" I wheeze, as the breath whooshes right out of my lungs. "I don't know...why would you feel anything for me? You're, amazing Brett, and you could have anyone you wanted. So why would you pick me? I'm just a silly, little girl."

"Seriously? That's what you really think of yourself? Shit, how could you possibly get it so wrong? And do you honestly believe it's a matter of 'picking'?"

"Well, yes." I lift my chin high in defiance, even though I am now equally as confused as him, if not more so. "Isn't it?"

"No. Not at all. Attraction isn't all about the physical. It's about attitude, humour, and chemistry. You are funny and witty, and clever. You've got a hang-up about your age, but I've never met an eighteen year old as bright and quirky as you. You know lots of random stuff....about dodgy Roman emperors."

"True. " I give a weak half-smile "But technically I don't turn eighteen 'til tomorrow."

He rolls his eyes at me once again. "And there, see? Even your argumentative streak is kind of cute. Sort of. Sometimes."  
His mouth kicks up, his eyes now brazen and alive with what looks like unadulterated adoration.  
"My point is, you're not just a girl. You're a lovely young woman. And besides, any decent fella shouldn't want a woman to put on a pedestal. They want someone who'll stand by their side. Someone they can laugh with. You build a relationship on laughing together, discovering new things. Not just the physical."

"But...you can't tell me that appearance doesn't matter at all. Because that's not true." 

"Well, yeah of course it matters a bit, but I wish you could see yourself like others do. Because you are gorgeous. You need to believe that."

I feel a rush of heat that seems to spread from the very tips of my toes right up to the roots of my hair.

"Actually, 'gorgeous' doesn't really cut it." He corrects himself. "You're beautiful, Sammy Lewis."

My fingers grip onto the edge of the table until my knuckles turn white. My head is spinning, and I have to remind myself to breath.  
Even when I'm at my rambliest, Brett is somehow managing to out-ramble me. But I'm loving every moment of it.  
I don't ever want him to stop.

And he doesn't.

"I knew you were different and not like all the rest from the first moment we met, but..." He pauses, wavering slightly, seemingly hesitant to continue and I'm on the edge of my seat, hanging on his every word.  
"...it wasn't until we started spending time together that I realised just how truly special you are. And I never thought I'd fall for you as hard as I did. But I have. So there."

My throat constricts tightly as his words filter through my ears and straight to my heart, pumping it up, making it feel full to the point of floating away like a balloon. And I need him. Need him there to catch it just in case it does.

And I'm not prepared for what happens next. 

Tears prick at my eyes as I feel a hard rush of emotion like I've never felt before. It is unstoppable.  
Hurriedly I wipe the stray, silent tears away with my hand before he has chance to notice. Hoping he won't mistake my overwhelming, breathtaking happiness for something else.

Just when I think he's finished, and I'm about to launch myself over the table at him, eager to kiss him into the middle of next week, he speaks again.  
It appears he's not done yet, although you could stick a fork in me, because I am.

"But...."

Oh shit. Why must there always be the dreaded "but"?

"...I don't expect you to feel the same way. Maybe you've no way of knowing right now what or who you want. You've not long since come out of a relationship. You've been through a rough break-up. Perhaps you'd benefit from some time alone, you know? I should give you some space. Then there's Damon..." 

Brett saying his name now, makes me shiver. And just like that, Damon is coming between us again.

"....If you don't want to see him anymore, you'd better tell him. I might find him revolting, and his behaviour appalling, but he ought to know the truth if you're not as keen on him as you first thought you were-"

"Brett." I say haltingly, and the words that have remained elusive are suddenly now in reach. And they tumble from my mouth. "I do know what I want, and it isn't Damon and I don't want space....I want you."

His intense eyes are now fixed unwaveringly on my face. "Oh, Sammy.." He breaths, reaching across the table he lightly brushes the back of his fingers across the apple of my cheek. They trail down, seductively ghosting over my lips, before finally cupping the tip of my jaw line gently.  
"You shouldn't say things like that. Not unless you truly mean it."

If I could only find the courage to say what I really feel, then perhaps I might be able to convince him that I mean it with all my heart and soul.  
He might laugh in my my face, and find it ridiculous that I could feel so strongly for him after such a short time.  
And he's going away. He'll be leaving. But if these are my last few days, or even hours with him, then I need to make them count.  
Even if all the odds are stacked against me.

"But I do mean it. Brett.... I..." Opening my heart, speaking the words I feel, and giving voice to their true meaning, is a task so enormous, so life or death, that I falter.  
I can do this. I have to. It isn't so hard. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.  
I close my eyes, summon up all my nerve and take a big leap into the unknown.  
"Brett....I think, I think I love you."  
My voice grows squeaker with each word, until I'm not even able to form sounds anymore.

I open my eyes and gaze up at him imploringly. His eyes have never looked so blue. So soft. So tender.  
Dare I even hope?

"Sammy, I've had to deal with rejection, betrayal and disappointment in the not-so-distant past, and it damn near destroyed me. And I'm not strong enough to suffer any more of it." He swallows hard, and I get the impression that he's been waiting for this for a long time. And now it's finally happening.  
"So....are you sure you want me? Are you absolutely certain of your feelings? Because if the answer is yes then I'm afraid you're stuck with me. I don't love in a half-hearted fashion. It's all or nothing with me."

I feel the thrill run through me at his words.  
I want nothing more in the world than to be loved so ardently by him forever, God help me.

"I've realised since meeting you that I've never been in love before. I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you." I let out a shaky breath. "I love you, I love you so much."

At the risk of sounding clichéd, time seems to stand still as we both stand simultaneously and move forwards, straining over the table, hands grasping blindly for each other.  
I wrap my arms around his neck and cling to him needily, burying my face in his hair, so that my next words are muffled.  
"Okay, we've done more than enough talking for now. As much as I've enjoyed it, I'd much rather be kissing you."

Gently he cups my face in his large hands, so he can press kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my eyelids, which flicker shut.  
I inhale deeply, having to bite back a small whimper as his soft, warm mouth daringly trails along the column of my throat, and it's an entirely sinful experience.  
if it weren't for him holding me up, I'm convinced I would melt into a gooey puddle on the floor.

Then his lips are on mine, his arms around me, and I'm kissing him back so passionately that I can't even remember my own name.  
I'm barely coherent at this point, and he could pick me up and throw me from the train and I would die happily, flailing through the air, only thinking about the declarations we've shared and the way he's touching me. I am that brain dead.

Kissing is the best. thing. ever.  
Well, it is with a guy who knows how to do it right, and boy, does Brett know how to do it right!

And you can call me crazy, but that's what love has made me.  
You could even compare me to one of those numerous Disney Princesses who fall head-over-heels for a guy after making eye contact, and only spending a couple of days in their company.  
But that is exactly how I feel, and I can't fight it any longer.  
Nor do I want to.

 

I spend the remainder of the journey nestled against him, Brett having moved so he's sitting beside me. His strong arm wrapped around my shoulder, his head resting on mine.  
I can hear the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart, and feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

Yes, there have been many times I have wished I were someone else. Someone prettier, someone more elegant and eloquent, someone better. But in this moment, I am so deliriously happy to be me.


	14. Teenage Kicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N*  
> Hey lovely people, just wanted to say thank you so much for your continued support and patience.  
> I really appreciate all your comments/kudos etc....
> 
> Hope you enjoy this new chapter, and you'll be relieved to know that I'm already working on the next instalment, so you won't have to wait as long for another update.
> 
> *BIG love*
> 
> ************

Brett and I arrive at Manchester Piccadilly early afternoon and duly head outside for the taxi rank, before parting company.

Following a conversatio we'd had regarding where he will be staying, he informed me that his old friend Kevin, who is now resident DJ at The Cyprus Tavern - and conveniently also resident in one of the apartments situated above the club - has offered to put him up for the night.

So I suppose that rules out any potential awkwardness. Awkwardness like me having to invite him to spend the night at mine, which could be potentially disastrous for numerous reasons....

Firstly, I don't quite trust my mother to keep her opinions to herself, I'm sure she'd disapprove of me becoming romantically entangled again so soon after breaking up with Mark.  
Secondly, if Brett were to stay with me, I'd have to resist the temptation to become quite literally, physically entangled with him.  
Worryingly I don't know if I possess that kind of will power anymore.

And thirdly, Brett might think it's all a bit much, meeting my mother.  
He's met my dad, but the circumstances were different.  
If I were to suggest he meet my mum as well, he might get the wrong idea and panic, and I don't want him to think things are moving too fast between us.

We arrange to meet up later at the club for birthday drinks, and after sharing yet another limb-melting kiss, he sees me into a taxi, and then I'm homeward bound.

There's so many thoughts buzzing around my head, there are too many of them and they come too fast.  
I'm looking forward to seeing my mum and my friends, but Brett is still very much at the forefront of my mind.

What will he make of my friends? Or dare I wonder, what they will make of him?  
And what would Damon make of it all?  
Brett's right, I need to tell him once and for all that we are over, even if we never really begun. He deserves to be told.

Although, I don't have to go into the details of explaining why. There's no need for him to know.  
Not that I have anything to feel guilty about really, especially when Damon has been the one pining after Justine all along.  
But I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.  
Until then, I'm going to enjoy my time with Brett....I mean at home, I'm going to enjoy my time at home.  
And with Brett...

 

As it so happens, deciding to surprise my mum by not telling her that I was coming home for my birthday, was not the best idea.

I find this out the hard way, when I arrive at our little 1960's built council house which perches on the periphery of a particularly notorious housing estate, that borders the area of Greater Manchester (incidentally I've never thought there was anything all that 'great' about it) and discover she's not at home.  
Plus, to make matters worse, I've forgotten to bring my house keys.

Oh lucky me.  
Was I cursed at birth? 

At first I presume my mum might be in work, but as I'm just about to take a stroll down to our local shops where she works as a dispensing assistant in the chemists, my neighbour spies me hanging around on the doorstep, and regretfully informs me that she's gone away to Blackpool for the weekend with some friends.

Wonderful.  
You couldn't make this stuff up.

I can't believe she's gone on a jolly to the seaside without me.  
Okay, so she wasn't exactly expecting me, and I sound like a spoiled brat pouting over being left behind, but it's just so typical of my rotten luck. To have come home especially and she's not even here, and I can't even get in my own bloody house.

After wasting a few minutes having a bit of a mini-meltdown, I get a grip and tell myself there's no point sulking, panicking or throwing a tantrum.  
I'm a grown, independent woman now, so I'll just have to figure this out. Somehow.  
It's like that awkward moment you have when you're looking around for a responsible adult and then realise the responsible adult is supposed to be you. 

Taking decisive action, I walk down to the corner where the phone box is, and ring my best friend Rachel - or Rae, as we all call her.  
Fortunately, the Gods are smiling on me to some extent and not completely hell bent on pissing on my parade.  
Not only is Rae home, but after asking a few of those pointless questions people always ask in these situations like; 'Didn't you know your mum was going away?' and 'why didn't you bring your key?' she agrees to let me stay with her.

Our conversation is cut short, as my 50p soon runs out and we get cut off, but that doesn't matter.  
We'll have plenty of time to catch up properly once I get to her place.

 

*****************************

The pair of us settle down comfortably in Rae's parents' lounge, which incidentally has always put me in mind of what an explosion in a Past Times closing down sale would look like - all chintzy doilies and migraine inducing floral patterns - and she informs me that she's already been on the phone to Rebecca (aka Becks, who is our mutual friend) and invited her to The Cyprus Tavern too.

I haven't gotten round to telling Rae the reason for wanting to go to that particular club. If I had tried on the phone, the call would've probably cost me at the very least around two pounds, as she would've demanded a full explanation, including every last detail, immediately.

"Shit, I can't wait for Becks to see your new hairdo. The colour really suits you Sam, you look fab!" She enthuses, waving her hands around animatedly. 

Rae, is a natural brunette with large hazel eyes, and her dark looks make her very exotic looking and attractive. She's petite, and curvaceous with an ample bosom which she despises, but she has the appearance of a 50's style pin-up girl. 

On occasion, she has been cruelly ridiculed for her weight but she genuinely doesn't give a damn. She likes her food and is comfortable in her own skin. Her confidence adds to her appeal, and I admire her strength of character. 

"Anyway as I was saying, Becks is well up for coming tonight.....but....she might be bringing Jay. Is that alright?"  
She carefully tucks her legs underneath her on the sofa, taking great care to not disturb her grey tabby cat (maginatively named 'Tabs') who is curled snugly in her lap.  
"Those two are practically joined at the hip these days. It drives me mad."

"That's okay, I don't mind. Jay's not so bad in small doses. And if Becks is all loved-up you can't really blame her for wanting to spend whatever free time she has between work and college, with him." 

Jason is Becks' boyfriend. The latest in a rather long line, but unlike the others, this time she seems genuinely happy.  
And although Jay is a friend of my ex, Mark, I don't hold that against him.  
Yes I find his lack of taste when it comes to the company he keeps, disturbing, but as long as he makes Becks happy then I'm willing to overlook the fact that he's a poor judge of character.

Rae on the other hand, isn't quite so understanding.  
She tolerates Jay at best, and the fact that he's friends with Mark merely adds to the number of reasons why she's not overly keen on him.  
Even though, to be fair, Jay isn't that bad. 

In fact he's a picnic in the park compared to the horror show Rae herself had been dating up until recently.  
Still, it wouldn't do for us all to have the same tastes.  
There was a time I considered Mark to be a picnic, when in actual fact he turned out to be more of a picnic by the motorway than in the park.

But Brett....  
Well, he is a prince among men in comparison to both. To all others in fact, and I'm absolutely dying to tell Rae all about him.

So I do.

I tell her as much as I think her excitable brain can take on board, and I'm deliberately selective about what I choose to tell her.  
I leave out the parts concerning Justine, Damon and the bizarre love triangle. That's all too complicated to explain to someone who doesn't know them personally, or understand their back stories.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" she squeals, after I've finished telling her how my time in London hasn't all been wasted rotting in front of the TV.  
"He sounds amazing!"

"He is." I sigh dreamily. "He's perfect. D'you know, I actually get butterflies whenever I'm near him."

"Really?"

"Really! He's so thoughtful and caring, and he totally gets me, Rae. I know it sounds crazy but it feels like something from a film or a book. He's...he's like my Romeo or something. Even though I never expected he would, or could be."

Oh dear. Who actually refers to their love interest as their 'Romeo'?  
I do, apparently.

Rae snickers, visibly amused by my proclamation.  
"You do remember how that story ends, right Sam? Romeo and Juliet both die. They kill themselves."

"Okay so I don't mean literally, it's more of a metaphor. You're not supposed to focus on the tragedy part."

"Well, I can't wait to meet him anyway." She grins, clasping her hands together excitedly. "Tonight can't come quick enough. Ooh, let's go upstairs and pick out what we're going to wear. You may as well take your case up too, and I'll make the futon up for you."

A few hours later and Rae's bedroom looks like it's transmogrified into a fashion boutique.  
Clothes are strewn everywhere and there's enough make-up and styling products to open up our own small branch of Boots.

Becks has arrived, and amidst the outfit-changing, make-up-applying and hair-styling, she has joined in with the Brett-related conversation. 

Along with my change of image, she and Rae seem to find the topic of my new beau utterly tantalising and mysterious, and I'm not complaining. 

All I really want to do is tell them about Brett, again and again and again. To the point where I'm at risk of becoming one of those annoying people who drive their friends completely round the bend, and end up friendless as a result.

"So, tell us when did you realise you had a thing for him?" Rae asks, her voice sounding odd due to pouting whilst she applies yet another coat of lipgloss.

I think about this carefully before I answer. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment from memory.  
"I'm not sure. If I'm honest, I think I was physically attracted to him from the start. I saw him on stage and wow....I kid you not, he should come with a warning. Anyone under the age of sixteen should not be allowed to look at him. He's that sexy. Seriously."

I pause whilst my friends make various excitable squee-ing noises, showing their approval.

"But as for my feelings for him, well they sort of built up each time I saw him. It was a bit weird for me at first because I wasn't used to random strangers being nice to me, especially in London. Londoners can be very unfriendly. Although Brett isn't from London originally. He is a Southerner, but he's from Sussex."

"Oh my god! Does that mean he talks like a farmer?" 

I stare with bemusement at Becks, as she launches into a comically clichéd Devonshire or Somerset type accent, with a lot of "Uh ar-ing" which actually sounds more like a stereotypical pirate than a farmer.

"No." I hurriedly interrupt just in time before she bursts into an impromptu rendition of 'I've got a brand new combined harvester' by the Wurzels.  
"They don't talk like that in Sussex. They sound very much like Londoners, except the accent isn't quite as strong."

"Right." She says, looking almost relieved for me. "I just thought that's how they all talked down there in the Home Counties."

"Well no, they really don't." I giggle.

"Who cares what he sounds like." Rae butts in now, zipping up her toiletries bag and tossing it onto the bed. "What does he look like? You haven't said anything about that yet. I'm guessing he's proper fit, yeah?"

"You'll see for yourself shortly." I tell her, but I can't keep the besotted grin from my face, which immediately gives the game away. 

"He is, isn't he?" She squeaks with unabashed delight. "And shit, you've got it so bad, I can tell. You've got this sort of dreamy look on your face."

"I have not!"

"Shut up, you totally have! I've seen you smile more this afternoon than you ever did when you were seeing Mark. You practically have big love hearts where your eyes should be."

I blush deeply, but don't bother denying any more of my friends' accusations. She's absolutely right.  
I've completely tripped, stumbled and fallen head over heels in love with Brett, and there's no shame in it.

I shouldn't be embarrassed or reluctant to admit how I feel about him, not when I'm bursting with happiness inside. So much so that I'm struggling to contain it, and it's clearly shining through.

"Have you slept together yet?" She blurts.  
Honestly, you really can't have any secrets from Rae, and she's not the most tactful of people.  
"What's he like in bed?"

"Probably sleepy and sort of snugly and cute-looking." I quip. "But I wouldn't know for sure, I haven't seen him sleeping."

"You know what I mean! Stop being all vague and tell me, what's he like? Is he better than Mark and that other weirdo you went out with?"

"Nick wasn't a weirdo." I protest. "He was just a bit shy and quiet that's all. And you know it only happened between us the once. He was my first-"

"Yeah, whatever. I don't care, Sam. I'm not interested in weird Nick. Stop avoiding the question and spill the beans." She leans forward keenly, as if I'm about to confess all. Only there's nothing to confess.  
"I know Mark wasn't great in the sack, you told me he was a bit of a let-down. So....is Brett impressive, or what?"

"I haven't slept with him, Rae. We've not been officially together that long. Not long at all actually." I glance down at my watch. "Technically, only a few hours or so."

"But you've been on dates!" She says with disappointment.

"They weren't proper dates though. I told you, it was just hanging out really."

Becks, who is scrunching VO5 mousse into her dark blonde hair, revamping the curls of her spiral perm, turns to me as if she's just had a eureka moment.  
"You could cop off with him tonight!" She chimes in, which quickly returns Rae to her previous jovial mood.

"Yes! Yes you could!" Rae's minstrel eyes shine conspiratorially. "Sam you should stay with him tonight, instead of here. Your mum's out of town, you have the perfect excuse!" 

"I can't just get it on with him like that!" I protest shyly. "We've not even been out on a proper date yet."

Becks now hands me an overstuffed make-up bag, then begins fiddling with the numerous plastic bracelets that adorn her ludicrously slender wrists. 

Like Rae, Becks is petite, very pretty and incredibly dainty, but super skinny. She has the waif-like countenance of a cover girl. Like Kate Moss but nowhere near as tall.  
Due to her stature, she's also quite flat chested, so she's a little envious of Rae's D-cup breasts. Which is ironic considering Rae would much rather be an A cup like her.  
"He asked you out on a picnic." She states. "That counts as a date, it's too romantic not to be. And he invited you out somewhere else didn't he?"

"Highgate? Yes, but we never went and-"

"It still counts. At least he asked. And he came to yours for a meal, didn't he?"

I laugh breezily, trying to concentrate on the task in hand, searching for a mascara that doesn't look as old as I am, and isn't all clumpy.  
"Yes but-"

"But nothing, that's two dates. Or as good as." Rae adds, bending down to plug in a set of Babyliss hair straighteners.  
"So I'm with Becks on this one, tonight should be classed as a third date, which means it's perfectly acceptable to sleep with him now."

"Actually, isn't it industry standard to sleep with someone on a third date? You're meant to. It's the third date rule." Becks supplies with a mischievous wink.

God I wish she wouldn't encourage her. Rae needs no encouragement whatsoever.

I stare at Becks in the mirror, aghast. "What third date rule?"

"It is a thing." Rae muses, looking thoughtful. "Although I suppose you don't have to go the whole hog, Sam....but at least half the hog. You could go down on him! Oral sex seems only polite after three dates, doesn't it?"

I narrowly avoid jabbing myself in the eye with the mascara brush.  
"What?! Okay you know what, nevermind. I don't want to know. I'll let you two thrash this one out. I'm going to get changed."

The pair of them collapse in hysterics, my flustered response amusing them no end.

I grab hold of the simple little black dress, or LBD as Rae says, and head for the bathroom.  
Leaving my incorrigible friends to speculate about third-date sexual activity.

 

*********************

'Manchester House' is a huge sandstone and pink brick building which was built between 1906-1909.  
I know this because Brett told me, having briefly filled me in on its history during the rest of our train journey.

Originally a mill, the seven storey high building faces onto Princess street, with the river conveniently running behind it.  
Nowadays, it is home to a diverse collection of businesses and apartments, and the Cyprus Tavern is one of them.

The club and clientele have a jaded history of their own.  
It would seem that the place has gained notoriety for being a hot-spot for trouble.  
It's a good place to go if you're a fan of alternative music, but the place itself is quite dingy inside and shabby, and filled with depressed looking people who want to hit each other.

However, I am determined not to let anything spoil tonight.  
I'm with my friends, I'm celebrating turning eighteen tomorrow, and I'm with my 'Romeo'  
You know, the bloke formerly known as Brett.  
Cringe.

I've gone all-out on my appearance, wearing the simple but stylish LBD - minus tights, I might add - and a pair of black kitten-heels, which I know I'm going to regret later. I might also regret the lack of tights too, as I'm back in the grim North now and it's noticeably chillier.  
But I'm trying to be sexy, and tights just don't cut it (have you ever actually stopped and looked at yourself whilst putting tights on? I don't care who you are, you could be Cindy Crawford and it still wouldn't be a pretty sight)  
I should really buy myself a pair of stockings or hold ups, but I haven't had time.

At least my make-up is sexy but subtle, thanks to Becks who helped me apply it after witnessing my own inept attempts at winged-eyeliner seemed to cause her untold agony.  
To my shame, she was able to achieve more in five minutes with a few different products than I've been able to achieve in the last four years.

Similarly, Rae has very kindly applied something called Frizz-Ease to my unruly mop of hair, and painstakingly straightened it to within an inch of it's life, so I'm now sporting a sleek, shiny bob. This is how the style is intended to look, rather than giving the impression that I've been playing with plug sockets.

We wind our way across the dance floor which is positively teeming with clubbers, and yet I immediately spot Brett. Not just because he's taller than about 98% of the other men in the room, as well as the handsomest, but because he's also deep in conversation with two men who are brandishing cameras and notepads.

Reporters?  
That couldn't be good.  
Could it?

Just then Brett looks up and sees us approaching. I hesitate briefly, feeling awkward and not wanting to interrupt his interview.  
It's definitely something press-related, because I see how they're frantically scribbling things down in their notepads.

I stare at Brett and he stares back at me, I try to hold my face very still so I don't give too much away, but Rae has followed my line of vision and immediately bounds towards him, scuppering my plans to skulk.

"Oh my God! It's Brett, right?" She cries as she descends on him like an excitable Springer spaniel (my neighbour has one which has to be given the doggy equivalent of Valium) forcing me to pursue her as if I'm the long-suffering owner she's escaped from.  
"Wow! You are not what I was expecting at all, but still..."  
She jabs Brett gently in the left bicep, and I wish I could blend into the wallpaper.  
"....not too shabby."

"Um, thanks...I think." I hear Brett say, with a wary smile.

He's wearing light blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that might've started out life as black, but has faded to grey. It really brings out the colour of his eyes, so they're obscenely blue.

He has got nice arms, which Rae has so diligently noticed.  
He's not ripped, but he definitely has muscles. Lean muscles.... and I have to stop staring to avoid what feels suspiciously like a blush, creeping up my neck.

Becks has moved in now too, and I can see by the way her mouth falls open that she's equally impressed.  
"So Brett, how did you two meet? Sam has been holding out on us, she won't go into the details but I'm absolutely dying to know!"

"Yeah? Well it is a really funny story actually..." Brett grins mischievously. "..definitely one to tell the grandkids I think."

I swallow hard, and do my best to ignore the way Becks' eyes almost pop.

"Er, should I make a formal introduction or would you two rather skip that part and carry on with the physical assessment and interrogation?" I fire at my friends, whose reactions are as different as their personalities.

Clasping a hand to her heart, Becks looks as if she is mortally offended. "I do not interrogate! And of course you should introduce us properly. I do have manners. I wasn't raised by wolves Sam!"

"I was!" Rae counters jokingly, snapping her teeth at Brett. "And I'm more than happy to carry on with a physical assessment. That's how we do things up here. Now get your shirt off!"

Becks sniggers openly at Brett's suitably bemused face. "Welcome to Manchester." She says, as if it explains everything.

"I have been here before." Brett retorts dryly, in a knowing voice, so I have to acknowledge him and look at him instead of focusing on my badly behaved friends.  
"What'cha." He adds and kisses me on the cheek, so I get a lovely whiff of that glorious aftershave, and expensive-smelling soap.

His hair smells fresh and slightly lemony. It suits him. It matches the clean, elegant set of his face, as he smiles down at me.

Rae and Becks collectedly make "ooh" sounds, and I turn away slightly to hide my blushes. 

"Did you do something different to your hair?" He asks sweetly. "It looks really nice."

"Yes, thanks." I beam back at him, pleased that he's noticed.  
Kudos to him, a lot of men wouldn't and I can see that his comment earns him Becks and Rae's silent approval.

Hastily I introduce them to Brett, who in-turn introduces us all to the newspaper reporter and photographer, who both work for the Manchester Evening News.

Well at least they're from a local paper and not the national press.  
They're both friendly enough, but even so I can't help feeling a bit wary of their presence.  
After all, the press hold the power to make or break a rising star's career.  
Even I know they're notorious for building you up just so they can tear you down.

Satisfied that he's given them enough of his time now, Brett politely bids them adieu and makes to usher us away.  
Just when it looks as though we're escaping, one of them places a hand on his shoulder. Determined to ask one final question.

"Brett, is this your girlfriend then?"

There is a moment of silence that seems to last for several millennia and I'm absolutely certain that my cheeks must be scarlet by now.

"It might be, why? What's it to ya?" Brett says casually, his trademark smirk dancing along his lips.

I've heard that response before. It's what he said to the beautiful foreign lady who interviewed him on TV.  
Why is everyone so curious about his love life for heavens sake? Okay so he's famous now, but that doesn't make him public property.  
I can appreciate how fans will be curious, but aren't celebrities entitled to some privacy?

And yet, there's a small part of me, a selfish part, that is terrified of him denying that I am.  
I'm not expecting him to shout it from the rooftops, although that would be cool, but what if he's ashamed of me? Embarrassed by me?  
I couldn't bare it.

The reporter nods stiffly, as if he's well accustomed to the evasive, cryptic answers given by fledgling rockstars, but then Brett unexpectedly gives a coy smile.  
"Yeah......yeah it is actually." 

Oh Holy shit.

Just like that he shatters all of my unspoken fears by making such an official statement with just those four little words. I never expected him to make it public, to be so open about his private life, to not give a moments thought or hesitation in admitting that we're an item.

My heart jackknifes in my chest, as his words circle around my brain.  
I glance to my right which gives Rae just enough time to give me the thumbs up and for Becks to mouth, "I love him!"

 

***************

 

As the evening wears on and I become gradually more tipsy, I'm less mindful of the press hanging around and actually really start to enjoy myself.

Brett is doing a fine job of playing disc jockey, and remains very attentive as the night wears on.  
Between dances I regularly catch him looking at me, and each time he gives me a wink and a foxy smile which makes me feel warm and tingly all over.

In-between playing requests, he also puts on several songs and dedicates them to little old me.  
These include Teenage Kicks by The Undertones, Dreamy Lady by T.Rex and unbelievably, even Like A Virgin by Madonna.  
The last of which elicits much giggling, nudging and "Oh my God-ing" from Rae and Becks.

At some point Jay arrives, bringing with him a heavily tattooed friend whom Rae quickly sets about terrorising. She insists that it's her way of testing a guy's mettle, but Becks and I have theorised that it might also be her idea of foreplay.  
She seems to take twisted pleasure in scaring a man half out of his wits.

When Brett manages to take a break from the decks, leaving his friend Kevin to spin the records - or whatever you call it - he joins us on the dance floor.

It's hardly surprising to find that the angels have blessed their most beautiful creation with enviable dancing abilities. He is multitalented and incredible at everything else under the sun after all, so of course he's going to dance like an absolute God.

He's snake-hipped, and possesses a good sense of natural rhythm, as opposed to myself. The music moves me, but it moves me ugly, and if it wasn't for the alcohol impairing my senses, i would be feeling very out of place next to Brett.

The only drawback that can't be numbed by booze, is that each time Brett ventures out from behind the turntables, a steady stream of people keep interrupting us mid-dance. Their eyes wide, like they can't believe who it is in their midst.

Some strike up a conversation, whilst others seem content to just stop and goggle at him.  
He smiles equitably, but I can imagine he's starting to regret his decision to reprise his old job as DJ.  
He's gone from needing security because there was s threat of being beaten up for not playing the sort of music the masses approved of....to needing security to prevent him from being mobbed by fans of his own music.

I stare at the ground and stifle a heartfelt sigh.  
Rae catches my eye, and gives a sympathetic smile.  
"I 'spose it comes with the territory. Fame and all that."

"Yeah." I reply flatly, rather reluctant to explore this subject and the possibility of it becoming a potential problem with someone who's had quite as much to drink as Rae has tonight.  
I highly doubt her sozzled brain will register it all. And I'm going to need this breath someday. No point wasting it.

I'm glad for her sake that tomorrow is Sunday and she doesn't have to work with the chronic hangover she's bound to have.  
Although I don't completely relish the thought of having to listen to her retching in the bathroom come the early hours. 

"I think it's nice that he has fans, I really do. And I'm so excited for him. It's just a bit weird for me. I'm not used to this sort of thing." I ramble drunkenly.  
"And he isn't used to it either. But mostly I'm scared that he's going to go away on tour, and there's going to be so many female fans, and he'll meet someone else. Someone better than me."

When I finish, she seems strangely quiet, and takes a long drink from some purple concoction she has in a tall glass.

"He seems really nice." She says, casually stirring the straw around in her drink. Seemingly gathering her thoughts.  
"But only time will tell, Sam. You're going to have to trust him, and stop thinking that you're not good enough, because you are. You're awesome! But you are going to have to get used to all of this." She makes a flamboyant sweeping gesture towards the gaggle of fans and the men from the press, who are still loitering by the bar.  
"The question is, can you?"

Bloody Rae, she is a great friend but she sucks the joy out of things sometimes.  
She is a joy-sucker.

I feel a bit sick now, and remember that with all the excitement of today, I forgot to take my insulin this afternoon.  
Damn.  
Now that's one extra thing to worry about....my blood sugar being super high, along with Brett being catapulted into celebrity status so that we're never free to enjoy spending quiet time together if we're out in public.

Will we have to date in secret? Will he need to invest in a fake beard and a pair of oversized plastic glasses to wear as a disguise, if he wants to go out and be left in peace?

More importantly, can I handle him being away?  
Can I handle the attention he'll get from the fans?  
Or rather, the other women?

Well, I suppose there's only one way to find out....  
Rae is right. Only time will tell.

Eventually, there's a lull in the procession of adoring fan girls, and we find ourselves alone.  
Technically we're not alone, there has to be about a hundred other people in the club, but we're standing off to the side, tucked into a corner. So it feels oddly intimate. 

"You having fun then?" Brett asks, leaning in close so that I can hear him above the deafening thrum of music.

Emboldened by booze, I place my hands on either side of his slim waist and gently pull him even closer. He doesn't resist.  
"Yep. But it would be a lot more fun if I had you all to myself, Wolfie."

He moves back slightly in order to look at me, his eyebrows raised. "Sammy, are you drunk?" There's a playful tone to his voice at first but then he suddenly becomes all serious-sounding. "I hope you're not too drunk, I don't want you getting ill."

"Stop worrying, I'm a big girl now."

"I'm not trying to be patronising, sweet. I'm just concerned about your health. And I promised your dad I'd look after you."

"I'm fine, okay? It's my eighteenth birthday so it would be rude not to get drunk, wouldn't it? And please....I want you to forget all about the promises you made my dad."  
I give him a meaningful look, letting him know that more than anything I want him to forget about my dads friendly warning about no hanky panky.

Brett's quick to register my meaning, and looks pleasantly surprised, but then his innocent expression becomes more wolffish. His eyes narrow and rove over me, blatantly checking me out, and even though I'm fully clothed it feels like he's stripping me bare. 

"You look absolutely stunning tonight, Sammy. Incredibly sexy indeed. I'm a very lucky man." 

Taking advantage of the moment I salaciously press the whole of my seemingly taller body (you gotta love the illusion that heels create) against his even taller one, in an attempt to get as close to him as physically possible.....well, in a public place anyway. 

Wow, I'm most definitely well on my way to being drunk.  
I don't know about Brett, but he is grinning a lot more than he usually does so I take this as a sign of possible inebriation.

His myriad of smiles are all equally gorgeous in their own way. Whether it be his lazy, lopsided smile or his secretive, boyish smirk.  
I'm admiring those perfectly pouty lips of his when things start to move so fast I can't register what's going on, as he suddenly grabs me, playfully throwing me backwards then catching me in his arms.  
I yelp softly and giggle, surprised by his actions.

Then everything slows down and my laughter dissolves as he kisses me,  
and I completely understand why people describe kissing as 'melting' because every inch of my body fuses into his.  
I'd be lying if I didn't admit it is daring, shocking, and sexy as hell.  
We are making out for everyone to see. The kiss, a soul-deep press of open mouths and tangled tongues, and my veins throb and my heart explodes, 

There had been a time when I had been adverse to public displays of affection, I would've found it far too embarrassing but not anymore.  
Not with Brett.

The sound of funk guitars shuddering from the clubs' speakers, fades into nothing more than white noise.  
Nothing and no one else matters, as we kiss and kiss. I'm grabbing onto his shoulders, breathing him in, he's the only solid thing in this swaying world and I want to hold him here forever. 

His arms are so strong and certain as they hold me, the heat radiates between our bodies and surges through me, leaving me limp.  
If there could be only one moment in my life I could keep and remember forever, it would be this one.

Admittedly, we've quite forgotten where we are and are starting to get a bit carried away, caught up in the moment and heady atmosphere of our surroundings.  
It's warm, softly lit with red and green lighting and the rhythm of the music seems to pulsate in sync with my erratic heart rate.

Then to my dismay, we're forced to break the kiss as Kevin's voice comes booming over the microphone, calling Brett back to the DJ booth.

Brett groans, not bothering to hide his frustration. "I better go and see what he wants, but I'll be right back. Scouts' honour."

I laugh casually, and self-consciously bring my fingers to my lips. Wondering if I've kissed all my lipstick away.  
"It's fine, you'd better return to your DJ-ing duties. I'm just going to nip to the ladies."

"Okay. Well I'll be right here when you get back." Mutters Brett with a wink, before sloping off unsteadily.

I'm well aware that I'm grinning like an idiot as I weave my way through the crowd.  
The smitten grin is still firmly in place as I head into the ladies toilets, as I pee, and even when I'm washing my hands.

It's a bit like having an outer body experience. My head is fuzzy, my vision slightly blurred and the room is spinning a little, and I bump off the walls on my way out.  
Considering I'm incapable of walking in a straight line, my nerves are tingling, making me very aware of my own body, which appears to be glowing, and throbbing with sexual tension and anticipation.

I'm dizzy with desire, eager to get back to Brett, and I wonder if I'll be indulging in third date sexual activity after all.

Oh Lordy, I bloody-well hope so.  
I have never wanted anyone like this before. Ever.

I turn back towards the dance floor area, when I suddenly crash into someone. At first I think it's Brett, but no.  
Brett is taller. Brett smells better.

I step back, apologising, and then my eyes skit up and I realise I'm face to face with Mark.

 

What the actual fuck is he doing here?


	15. Love Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N*   
> As usual, just want to say a MASSIVE thank you to those of you who take the time to leave comments and kudos. You know who you are. You guys RAWK!!! xD
> 
> ********************

I stumble backwards slightly, tripping over my own feet. I feel the alcohol swimming in my head, slowing me down and wish I hadn't drank those extra shots that Becks bought.

"Having a good time?" Mark asks, casually placing his hands on his hips, he is standing right in front of me.

"W-what are you doing here?" I demand, once I recover and find my voice.

"Jay said he was meeting Becks here later, so I thought I'd drop in. But hey, it's no big deal. It's a free country innit?" He responds with a twisted smile that I find utterly nauseating. 

In fact, his overall presence is making me feel queasy.   
There's a distinct dazed look in his light green eyes which suggests he's drunk quite a lot.   
An awful lot actually, he reeks to high heaven of booze.

"I heard you were back, so I wanted to come and wish you happy birthday." He continues. "I came into town especially to see you really. I've missed you Sam. You're looking super fucking hot by the way."

I can't be held accountable for my facial expressions now that I am under the influence of alcohol, and I feel myself grimacing openly.  
There might've been a time when I'd feel unapologetically smug, having Mark ogle what he can no longer have.   
But not anymore.  
Now it just makes me shudder.

"Thanks. But you really needn't have bothered."  
I move to walk passed him but he sidesteps in front of me, blocking my way.

"Aw, come on Sam. We haven't seen each other in ages. Don't be like that. Aren't you even going to let me give you a birthday kiss?"

"Er, no. Not a chance. No fucking way." I grind the words out, square my shoulders and push passed him.

"Not even a little one? For old times sake?" He reaches out and grabs me by the elbow, making me squeak in surprise.  
His face is harsh, and his eyes look startlingly cold. They're bloodshot, yet look almost glacial.   
"Haven't you missed me?"

I roughly pull my arm free from his grasp, and as much as I don't like being stared at with eyes of marbled glass, I meet his gaze with a look of defiance. "No I haven't. Not one bit."

It's hard to imagine that I used to feel something for this man.   
Now when I look at him, I don't even feel anger anymore. I don't really feel anything, and if he were the last man on earth and the future of the human race depended on it, I'm afraid it would have to be the end of the line for mankind.  
I wouldn't get back with him for all the little plastic toys in China.  
Apart from him being a cheating, lying piece of shit, he's just not enough.  
His sandy cropped hair just isn't long or brown enough. His eyes aren't blue enough. He doesn't smell nice enough. He isn't tall enough, or charismatic enough. His smile isn't dazzling enough.  
He isn't 'Brett' enough

His expression now wavers between irritation and desperation. Clearly miffed by my proclamation. "That's 'cause of that wanker 'round there, innit?" He nods grumpily in the direction of the bar area. 

"What?"

"That poof that you're with. I would've thought he was a complete faggot if I hadn't seen you both all over each other with my own eyes....these eyes!"  
Mark points two fingers at his bloodshot, glazed eyes, just in case I'm in any doubt about which eyes he is referring to.  
"You've only been gone five minutes and you're already shagging some cockney tosser."

I actually feel my right eye begin to twitch, and if I were a violent person with a serious impulse problem, then this would be the moment where I'd flip and ruin everyone's night.  
"Don't call him that! You know absolutely nothing about him, and it's none of your damn business what, or 'who' I do anymore."

"I know enough about him." He spits. "He fancies himself as the next David Bowie or some shite like that. He's probably just using you for the odd leg-over, Sam. He's too old for you, and I'd be willing to bet that once he's rich and famous he'll soon get bored and dump you. You'll be just another girl that he'll probably forget all about.'

Okay, so he is entirely wrong about Brett using me for sex but his last sentence cleaves through me like a blade, drawing blood.  
I take a deep breath, and fight hard to look unfazed by the callousness of his words. My brain desperately scrambles around in search of some witty, snarky come-back, but it fails miserably.

"Like I said, it's none of your business." Is all I can manage, feebly. "So keep your sad, narrow-minded opinions to yourself."

"I'm only trying to look out for you, Sam." He slurs, tottering forwards unsteadily, snaking his arms around my waist and I don't have time to skirt backwards out of his reach. He's like an octopus. Crazily long slithery arms, and I'm not able to extricate myself from his hold.  
"I still care about you. You're a crackin' girl."

"You're right about that, she is." Brett's distinctive voice suddenly says from behind us, and I freeze as if my insides turn to ice.

I'm not sure how much he's overheard, and I hope to God he hasn't gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. Put two and two together and come up with five.

Mark's arms go slack and I hastily pull myself free, then dare to turn around slowly to face Brett, who simply raises his eyebrows at me, so it's impossible to know what he is thinking.

"This isn't what it looks like." I gabble hastily.

"Isn't it?" He stares at me blankly for a second, before his face suddenly darkens. "I think it's exactly what it looks like.......This geezer is giving you aggro, right?"

I take a sharp intake of breath, feeling a huge rush of relief. "It's, it's fine though honestly. Take no notice, please just leave it. I'm okay now."

And I really am, as Brett wraps a protective arm around my shoulder and I sink into him.

"You sure?" He asks, his blue eyes a strange blackish grey in the red and green light.   
"If you want me to walk away, I will. I'll do what you want, but-"

"I'm sure. Yes. Please. Just leave it." I try to convince him.

He nods tersely, true to his word, and I slip my arm around his waist. 

"Aww, aren't you both so fucking adorable." Mark sneers.

I dart a look up at Brett, who forces a tight smile that anyone but a fool would know means 'piss off'  
I hurriedly prompt him into moving and we turn and head back around the corner towards the dance floor, trying to ignore Mark's sniggering.  
I hear him laughing behind us and swallow hard. Praying that he won't follow us any further, but when I glance back he's still there.  
"I know who you are, bud. I know who you are."   
He hisses, pointing at Brett drunkenly.

"That's great. Good for you." Brett tosses over his shoulder, his voice dripping with sarcasm as we pick up our pace. "But I don't really care if you know who I am, 'bud'. Couldn't give a toss, actually."

"Ah, you reckon you're funny don't you? You think you're clever!" Mark snaps, raising his voice. "You're just some shitty singer who thinks he's all that."

I feel Brett tense at the side of me, and at this point I'm not sure how he's going to react.

"No not really, I don't think that at all." He replies flatly in a bored voice, as he slows to a standstill and Mark draws level with us.  
"I ain't gonna lose any sleep over what you think about me."

"If you say so, but I know your type. You re full of yourself. I've seen you on the tele, you're a right pretentious prick!"

Poised like a couple of prize fighters either side of me, the two men stare back at each other. Triumphant that he has the upper hand, Mark straightens and tilts his chin, challenging Brett, seemingly oblivious to the violence in his glare.

Mark has always been mouthy and hotheaded but it's mostly bravado. Underneath that cocky exterior lies a coward. One who has been known to throw himself on the floor of a pub during a bar brawl, pretending to be unconscious in order to avoid getting involved or injured.  
He only ever picks a fight with an opponent he thinks he can beat, but I don't fancy his chances right now, and I can see the direction he's about to march in, with ill-fated confidence.

Regarding him in the same manner one might an annoyingly persistent bug that won't go away, Brett manages to vocalise words through his grinding teeth. He's grinding them so hard, that I fear for his back molars.  
"Instead of trapping off, why don't you do us all a favour mate, and go piss up a rope!"

Okay, so this must be a Southern insult because I've never heard this one before, but the meaning is regionally (if not universally) clear. 

Mark bristles but his opportunity to respond is cut short when a couple of fangirls approach, and Brett is obliged for appearances sake to give them his autograph.  
He smiles politely and acts gracious, even answering their questions regarding the band's upcoming tour.  
I move slightly off to one side, not wanting to get in the way. Especially when the photographer from the newspaper hurries over to take a few photos of Brett in mid autograph-signing action.

"Give him your number girls, he'll be well up for it!" Mark suddenly yells at them, and I've never been so tempted to high-five someone in the face with a chair.  
It's extremely difficult trying to ignore someone you really want to throw a brick at.  
"He likes 'em young. Ain't that right Sam?"

I see Brett impale Mark with his glare, and Brett's friend Kevin has obviously seen it too, as within seconds he's joined us on the dance floor, subtly cajoling the girls and photographers into going away, with the promise of free drinks.

"Who's the dipstick?" He asks quietly, turning back to us, and he indicates towards Mark who is still hovering nearby and rambling, mostly to himself.

"My ex." I reluctantly admit and Kevin hums sympathetically. 

"Don't let him wind you up, Brett." He advises wisely. "Those fellas from the paper are just waiting for summat juicy to go down. That's what they do. You're fresh meat and they'd love to make mince out of you. So don't give them the satisfaction. Rise above it."

"I know Kev, I Know. But I'm not used to any of this, y'know? Having to bite my tongue because I'm being followed around with cameras and shit. Why should Sammy's ex get away with acting like a complete dick just because the fuckin' press are hanging around?"

It's a rhetorical question, but Kevin responds knowingly. "Fair enough, it's fucked up mate, but you can't afford to attract unwanted attention. Any negative publicity you receive this early on in your career might be good if you want a reputation as a bad boy, but your record company would drop you like a sack of shit." He points out.

I nod in agreement. "He's probably right, Brett. You should listen to him. Mark is completely off his face and he's a waste of space anyway so he really isn't worth getting into any trouble for. Just ignore him."

Brett's jaw is set and I can see the muscles of his face tightening. "I dunno if I can, Sammy. The way he was pawing you before, it was well out of order."

Brett's looking at Mark in a way which suggests he would like nothing more than to knock him spark-out, but his anger is the still kind. Completely motionless and reserved and under control in a dangerous way.

Oh no, this is not good. This is not good at all.

I've seen those beautiful eyes flash with white-hot fury before - that morning in the kitchen at Moorhouse Road - and I'm 99.9% certain he only kept a grip on his temper then because Jarvis had intervened.

I shoot Kevin a worried look, which he duly registers.  
"Don't worry mate, I'll go and grab the boys, they'll get rid of the knob head."

To my relief Brett nods begrudgingly, so Kevin disappears off into the crowd, and within half a minute he's returned with two burly looking bouncers in tow. Both of whom have shaved heads, and several visible scars from previous skirmishes.

"Just like old times, hey mate?" Kevin laughs lightheartedly, as the security descend on Mark. Clamping each of his arms between them in a vice-like grip they practically lift him off his feet, swiftly and effectively removing him from the edge of the dance floor, where he's been standing, shouting incoherent abuse from what he must've imagined to be a safe distance.

But Brett doesn't laugh along with Kevin, because although Mark doesn't physically protest (he's not a complete idiot and obviously recognises the value of having limbs that aren't broken) but he makes one final attempt at provoking Brett, and to my horror, this time he succeeds...

"Such a big man, aren't you? Setting your heavies on me, getting them to do your dirty work. You fucking poof! Well, enjoy my sloppy seconds mate, you deserve each other!" Mark calls out, taunting.

Whether it's pride, vanity or some misguided masculine urge to defend my honour, I can't be sure, but Mark's mocking triggers something in Brett and suddenly it's like someone hitting the fast forward button on a video recorder, as he brusquely marches after the trio at hyper-speed, and I struggle to keep up.   
Which makes sense because Brett's legs are twice as long as mine, and I'm also semi-drunk and wearing heels.

I reach the front door just in time to see Brett lunging forwards, grabbing Mark by the front of his shirt.   
He swings his fists wildly but is too slow and clumsy with alcohol so Brett manages to deflect his punches.   
I rush towards them as he slams my ex hard into the side of a van that's parked by the roadside.   
I flinch at the sound, as the van rocks with the force of the impact and I'm worried there will be an identifiable Mark-shaped dent left there, like something from a cartoon.

I've never seen Brett in a fight. Not a physical fight. And I've never seen him pushed to this extreme. He's pretty even-keeled most of the time. Yes, Damon can easily anger him, and I myself have annoyed him, but I've never seen him at the point of angry, boiling rage.

Needless to say, Mark has had the wind knocked out of him, and he gasps for breath as Brett leans in closer to his face.   
He may be tall and slim, but he's stronger and much more powerful than he looks at first glance.

"Listen to me you obnoxious bastard, from now on you leave Sammy alone, have you got that? You don't touch her, you don't talk to her, because if you do I promise I'll ram my fist so far down your throat, you'll be shitting teeth for months! D'you understand?" He snarls.

"Mate, take it easy yeah?" Kevin soothes, having now joined us. "There's been police riot vans parked up round here recently because of all the kicking off. You don't wanna get yourself nicked over this little turd."

Either opting to ignore Kevin's warning, or temporarily blinded by rage, Brett presses Mark even harder into the side of the van until his eyes bulge like a caricature drawing.  
"I said, d'you understand me you gormless little cunt?"

Mark somehow manages to nod his head, indicating that he understands.

I let out a low whistle under my breath which gains Brett's instant attention. "Tsk. Language, Wolfie." I interject quickly. He turns his head in my direction, and I use it to my advantage. "That's twice I've heard you drop the C bomb today."

I hold his gaze, chancing a small smile and he releases Mark immediately.  
He shakes off his anger as if it were a dusting of flour as I walk over and place my hand gently on his shoulder. He looks at me, and his eyes seem to clear. All traces of aggression disappearing.  
"Shit. I'm so sorry." 

I shrug and try to make light of the situation. "For what? Saying the C word again? That's okay. I'll let you off just this once." 

He smiles weakly but shakes his head, knowing that resorting to violence isn't the best tactic.  
Though I'm ashamed to admit, I got a strange thrill out of it.

Mark is standing still by the van, his face in a daze, and then all at once the doors of the club swing open, and the two men from the Manchester Evening News come barrelling out.

Great. This party just got even more fun.

"Brett! Brett!" They both call out annoyingly, as if they aren't just journalists looking for their next victim, but old acquaintances who are on familiar terms with him.

Brett blinks in the glare of the flashlight as the photographer begins snapping away, and he momentarily puts me in mind of a small, defenceless animal cornered by a pair of predators.

"Nothing to see here fellas." Kevin assures them, as he swiftly strides up to Brett and presses his house keys into his hand. "Make yourself scarce, now." He whispers hoarsely.

I grab Brett's hand and try to pull him along the pavement but he refuses to budge. I yank on him but still he doesn't shift, and his 6ft frame isn't easy to move.  
"But kev, what about-?"

"No worries, I'll take over and man the decks. It's no sweat. Go on, get outta here." Kevin insists, and then he swiftly puts himself between the reporters and his friend, attempting to waylay them.

I hold onto Brett's hand, and urge him forwards. This time he moves, but reluctantly.  
"Sammy, what about your friends? This was meant to be your night."

"It's fine, honestly Brett. That's not important, and don't worry about Rae and Becks. Just, come on. Please."

I want to get away from The Cyprus Tavern without anyone getting hurt or arrested. I can just imagine tomorrow's headlines now, splashed all over the tabloids;  
Brett Anderson in Manchester bar brawl! Suede star caught up in lovers' quarrel! Brett from Suede, Sex God!  
Okay so not the last one, at least.....I don't know.

He looks like he is going to protest again but then relents, and we begin walking away quickly. With each step we take, we move a little faster until we're practically making a run for the corner.   
I'm at risk of snapping my ankles in these shoes, but Brett keeps a protective grip on my hand, and when my hand is in his I feel almost invincible.   
Like I could take on the world and win.

We make it into the alleyway, where he fumbles for a moment to find the right key to fit the lock.   
Once inside we make our way up two flights of stairs to Kevin's apartment, and I'm finally able to breath easy.   
In more ways than one.   
Having put two floors between us and the press and Mark, I feel some of my anxieties lifting from me.

"You've stayed here before?" I ask, shattering the silence as I follow Brett down a narrow hallway, stumbling slightly in the dank gloominess.

"Yeah, this is the room where I used to crash out sometimes after a night out." He pushes open a door, and flips the light switch on the wall. "It's a bit grim, but it does the job. Just somewhere to get my head down, y'know? I would've booked a hotel room but when Kev offered I didn't wanna offend him by saying no."

Grim is the word.   
It's a small, narrow room with a typically high ceiling for an old building.   
There's damp forming on the walls, only one curtain pulled across the sash window which sort of sags in the middle because the velveteen material is too heavy for the thin curtain wire to withstand it's weight.

And then I notice the bed.  
One teeny tiny, rickety old narrow bed, which is unfeasibly low to the ground.

No chance of passionate third date sex in that thing, I think sourly, but I'm suddenly quite struck by the need to sit down.  
I feel all jangled, and my nerves are on edge. 

I shift slightly, holding onto the wall as I slip out of my shoes. I'm lowered about four inches, and my aching feet flatten and stretch against the threadbare carpet.

"You alright?" Brett asks, as I move unsteadily towards the poor excuse of a bed. "You look a bit shaken up."

"It's nothing to worry about, I just feel a bit woozy that's all. It'll pass I'm sure."

He walks over and sits down next to me, and I half expect the bed to collapse.   
"Is it because you've been drinking? Is your blood sugar alright?"

I wave a hand dismissively. "It's most likely just because I'm feeling a bit churned up after everything. That's all." 

He rubs his hand across my back tenderly, and leans forward to place a kiss on the top of my head. "I am so sorry, Sammy. I've ruined everything."

"Don't be so silly, you haven't ruined anything." I argue, melting into his caress. "It's Mark who's to blame, not you."

"Yeah, but the bloody press only showed up because of me." He says softly, "And I should've behaved better."

God, at the risk of sounding really vulgar, I could shag him right then and there.   
He's talking about behaving better but I want nothing more than for him to behave very badly right about now.  
The differences between him and Mark are astounding. 

'No, you were...um...that was very....manly." I babble, not knowing what to say. "Manly. Yes. Lots of manliness going on."

Brett laughs, then grimaces and it's without humour.   
He runs a hand through his hair, then scrubs his hands down his face. He looks tired, and troubled.  
I pull him into a hug, and he caves against me, pressing his face into my neck.

"I am really sorry though." He says again, his voice muffled against my skin. "Some birthday party, huh?"

"Oh stop it! You've nothing to be sorry for. I should thank you. No ones ever stood up for me like that before." I say in a small voice.

He groans and holds me tighter. "Well, shit. They should have."

We sit for a while, wrapped in this gentle embrace, listening to the various sounds of the inner-city filtering up from the street below.   
The pulsating beat of music coming from downstairs spills out into the night air every time the doors open to the club.   
Laughter, and loud, animated voices ring out from the street.   
The traffic rumbles on, never sleeping, and in the distance somewhere a siren wails.

"If you're feeling sick, then you're not gonna want to be traveling in a taxi....are you?" Brett speaks suddenly, and my stomach does a back flip.  
I now have the chance to spend the night with him, and he's practically handing me an excuse....gift wrapped, complete with bow.

"No." I answer a little too eagerly, but I don't want him thinking that I'm too sick to indulge in any carnal activity either.  
"I don't feel that sick though, I'm just a bit churned up." I say again, reluctantly moving to allow Brett to stand.   
His eyes are scrutinising me closely, unnervingly.

"Well, I can lend you a T.shirt to sleep in." He says helpfully. "And you can have the bed, I'll sleep on the floor."

Wait, what? No!   
This is the opposite of what I want to happen. This isn't good.  
This is very un-good.

"I can't let you do that." My voice comes out too shrill for my liking, cutting through the air like nails down a chalkboard, so I quickly correct myself. "You'll be so uncomfortable, you won't get any sleep."

"Nah. It'll be fine. There's loads of blankets on the bed, I'll use a couple of them."   
He's ferreting around in his hold-all bag now, where he produces two T.shirts, briefly inspecting them to see which one is the longest, and then he throws me the longer of the two.   
"There ya' go, sweet. D'you wanna use the bathroom first? It's down the hall, first door on the left."

I catch hold of the T.shirt. It's like some sort of Air-Force number, with a logo that I don't recognise.   
I plaster on a big, fake smile. "Um, yeah okay. Thanks."   
I'm trying to sound carefree and matter of fact, but I feel the disappointment heavy inside me.

In various romance novels and movies, it's a common occurrence to find the two main characters having to share a room. It doesn't matter whether it's a regency coach inn, or a modern five star hotel.  
It happens all the time.   
Then other things happen too.  
When a man and a woman are thrown together in one room, passionate lovemaking is sure to follow.

But not here. Not now.

I commit the cardinal sin by not bothering to remove my make-up, purely because I don't want to scar Brett for life. If I were to emerge from the bathroom bare-faced, he might telephone the police, mistaking me for an intruder.  
I quickly change into the T.shirt, which isn't even short enough to flash a bit of lacy lingerie at him.  
Maybe he just doesn't fancy me.  
To be honest, as I return to the grotty little room and Brett makes his way passed me without so much as batting an eyelid, I'm starting to believe I could parade around completely naked and I still wouldn't be able to tempt him.

Not that I'm the tempting kind anyway.  
I try to console myself with the belief that it sounds too exhausting and time consuming being the sort of woman who excites men into giddy states of uncontrollable passion.

I climb into the cold bed, shivering and feeling deflated, but I force all thoughts of passion from my mind. Filing them away for another day.  
This works for at least a full two minutes, until Brett returns wearing a pair of those legendary snug-fitting boxer shorts, and a white T.shirt which is thin enough to see his nipples through.

Unlike the last time I saw him in his underwear, this time I don't avert my eyes to the sight of his long, lean legs and other.....ahem....parts.  
And I hasten to add that he has a rather fantastic arse as well.   
Extremely gropable.  
Bugger, I practically have to sit on my grabby-hands.

Oh I wish I could be blasé about all of this and laugh it off, but I feel my pulse speed up and the ache of sexual longing, which is still such an unfamiliar feeling it makes me all tense and unreasonable.

He switches on a bedside lamp that sits atop a small set of drawers at the side of the bed, then turns off the main light.  
I watch his movements and my thoughts turn briefly back to Rae and Becks, who will by now be presuming I've sneaked off with Brett to indulge in some mandatory, third date sex.   
Or as Jane so eloquently put it, 'mad shagging'.

The irony is almost unbearable.  
They couldn't have been more wrong.

Without even so much as giving me a kiss goodnight, he lays a blanket down and settles himself into the space between the drawers and the bed.   
He has a second one to put over him and one pillow folded in half, which looks about as comfortable as using a sack of potatoes to rest your head on.

"D'you want the light off?" He asks, and then his expression changes, which makes me realise I've been staring at him without meaning to.  
"You don't have to look at me so strangely, Sammy. I don't intend to try anything on with you." He says this coolly enough to douse any fevered fantasies I may or may not be having.  
"And I don't suspect you'll be making a pass at me, so it's safe to assume we can turn the light out, yeah?"

"Of course! I wasn't thinking anything like that." I lie through my teeth.

He reaches up and switches the lamp off, plunging the room into silent darkness. "G'night then, Sweet."

"Yeah, G'dnight Wolfie."

A million thoughts rush through my mind. Thoughts and questions that I can't even begin to fathom, such as how have we gone from snogging each other senseless in the club, to him saying there's no way he's going to make a pass at me.  
Even though he's officially like my 'boyfriend' now, and I made it blindingly clear to him earlier that I want him to.  
Shit, I want him to so badly.

The frustration I feel - sexual or otherwise - is threatening to consume me. I close my eyes but I'm never going to be able to sleep, not when my tension has evolved into locked-muscles, and a thumping headache.

Disturbingly, my mind suddenly jumps to an article I'd once read about sex being a remedy for headaches.   
Contrary to the popular belief that it can induce one, and despite it being a universal excuse for getting out of the act itself, scientific researchers claimed climaxing could actually rid you of an aching head.  
But I wouldn't know, having never experienced the big 'O' for myself.   
Well, not with a partner anyway.   
But I'm not about to discover if the article was true or not now, not unless I ask Brett if he fancies partaking in a scientific study, just out of curiosity, in the name or research and all that.

The longest time seems to go by. Minutes are dragging by like hours, until I can no longer contain my restless agitation.  
Perhaps I should just throw all dignity to the wind and brazenly throw myself at him ("Oops, sorry I just accidentally on purpose rolled out of bed and landed on top of you." kind of thing.)

But no, I have to behave with a bit more decorum than that.   
Unfortunately.

A few more minutes pass as I silently carry on a depraved, slightly shambolic conversation in my head like all normal, sane people do.  
Then I hear Brett moving around, and wonder whether or not I should pretend to be asleep. Which is ridiculous really. I'm not asleep. I'm definitely not asleep. So I decide instead to use my headache as a decoy, settling on a plan to ask for some paracetamol or something.

"Are you asleep?" I whisper, which is a pretty stupid question when you think about it.

"Nope." He replies, popping the 'P' "My back is aching a bit, there's not much room down here to stretch out."

"You shouldn't be so tall." I say dumbly.

"I'll bear that in mind."

"I don't suppose you have anything for a headache do you?"

I hear him fumbling for the lamp, and when it flicks on I take in the sight of him, his hair is ruffled and he's a bit sleepy eyed.   
He looks undeniably cute in this sort of rumpled, relaxed state, and the desire to reach out and touch him borders on physically painful.

"I'll go and have a look for you." He tells me, efficiently clambering to his feet.

He leaves the room, and I swing my legs out of bed. I'm not cold anymore.   
It's the Brett-effect. He gets me all heated up, whether I like it or not.

He's gone a while and I hear what sounds like him opening and closing cupboard doors at random.

"He's only got ibuprofen I'm afraid." He says on his return, brandishing a large glass tumbler of what appears to be blackcurrant.   
"But I found some sugar-free juice at least. It'll take the edge off the taste of the pills."

"You're an angel." I say, without any trace of sarcasm, as he hands me the glass and the pack of tablets.  
I'm tempted to retract my statement however, when the liquid hits my mouth, gripping my tastebuds and mercilessly beating the crap out of them.  
"Fuck me!" I sputter and let out this terrible little pig-snort as the pills get caught in my throat on the way down.  
"Forget being an angel, you're a juice demon! Didn't you dilute this?"

He slaps me on the back with his large palm. "Of course I diluted it. Sorry Sammy, I tend to make it quite strong. I hate it when it's too watery."

"Quite strong? This is brutal, Brett. I doubt even you could drink a full glass of this!"

He looks at me all apologetically, but then his solemn expression gives way to one of remorseless amusement.  
"Try me." He says with a devilish smile that shows his dimple, and he has no idea how much I would like to - in every sense of the word!  
"I might take a couple of those ibuprofen for my back, as well."

I watch with a measured amount of satisfaction as he pops two Nurofen from the silver foil and throws them down his throat before taking a big gulp from the tumbler.

"Strong enough for you?" I smirk, as he scrunches his face. Contorting his features into an agonised expression of torture.

"Yeah, you might have a point." He chokes. "Perhaps it could do with a bit more water."   
His voice sounds comically strained, and that's when it starts. 

The giggles.

It begins as a low shake in my stomach, I'm silent at first but then I can't hold it in. My drunken giggling makes Brett laugh, and soon we are both sort of bent over laughing, clutching our knees.

I sink down onto the floor where he'd previously been lay and wipe the stray tears of laughter from my eyes. No doubt smudging my mascara in the process.   
He puts the juice down next to the lamp, and it's only then he notices that I've switched places.

"What?" I say innocently "Your back is hurting. You should have the bed."

"Um, no. Absolutely not! It ain't open to debate Sammy. I won't let you sleep on the floor." 

"Well I'm not moving."   
To emphasise my point I stretch out, but then he reaches down and yanks the pillow I'm leaning on directly out from under me.

"You'll have to, you can't sleep without a pilllow can you?" 

I jump up and attempt to tussle it from him but he won't let go, so I resort to snatching the other one from the bed.  
"Fine. We'll swap then." I smile triumphantly.

"No." He points a finger at me, looking angry, though there is a smile at the corners of his lips. "Get into bed, and stop being stubborn."

I can't lie, it feels sinfully good to hear him say the words "get into bed" but I won't let myself get distracted.

"I'm being stubborn? Well that's rich coming from you, wolfie. You're a fine one to talk." I raise my arms and wallop him over the head with the pillow, and he sways due to the force of it.

"Oh, so it's gonna be like that is it?" He grins, thwacking me in the side with the one he's holding, and I almost wobble over.

"Oi!" 

I try to deliver another blow but this time he counters it, and I stagger over, losing my balance.  
I feel myself falling, Brett tries to save me but we end up tumbling down together in a tangled heap of pillows and limbs.  
We're both laughing like a couple of inebriated idiots, but then I'm suddenly aware of my leg being caught around his, the bare skin of his manly thigh trapping mine, and it makes me stop mid-laugh.

Oh holy Jesus.

My headache has upgraded from thumping to splitting, but I don't want to move.   
Feeling Brett's body heat sear into me is strangely warming and comforting.  
I could spend hours just absorbing him, feeling him close, feeding off his warmth, but my own body becomes an impatient beast and the steady thrum of arousal pulses deep and low down in my belly.

"Shit, sorry am I squashing you?" He hurriedly disentangles himself.

"No you wasn't." I say with a sigh, as he pulls himself up and sits propped against the bed.

For some reason my heart is in my throat and I'm astounded by the silence.  
Manchester is loud, always with the sound of buses and cars and people.  
Now it seems strangely quiet inside and out, it's totally peaceful but this also means the blood pounding in my ears is almost deafening.

"I'm going to have a cig I think." He says, as though he is still yet undecided. "D'ya want one?"  
When I don't answer he looks at me quizzically, his face wrinkling with confusion.

"No I want you." I say it before I can get my stupid mouth to stop, and his eyebrows shoot up until they're practically level with his hairline.

He coughs and clears his throat, looking all boyish and shy now.  
"Is that right?"

Feeling embarrassed, I dip my head and pretend to look at my watch, wanting to hide. "Oh, hey it's gone 1:00am now....that means I'm officially eighteen."

"In that case...." He shifts towards me and lowers his face so it's level with mine. "...happy birthday."  
His eyes hold mine for a moment and then he licks his lips, and leans in.

His kiss is whisper soft. More like a soft brush of lips than any real contact.  
He pulls back and hesitates for a millisecond before he leans forward again and kisses me with just a bit more pressure.  
There is no tongue, no heavy breathing or slobbering. It is just a kiss.   
One sweet, lovely, perfect kiss.   
And when it is over, and it is over pretty quickly, he reaches down and takes my hand, then kisses the back of it.  
"I love you, Sammy."

I'm not exaggerating when I say I feel my heart sort of explode in my chest.  
I know he has feelings for me. Strong feelings, but he's not said the words until now. The words I've been dying to hear, in fact I didn't realise just how much I needed him to say it until now.   
And now he's said it.   
He has said that he loves me, and it means everything to me. 

He's laying close to me on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, his face resting in the palm of his hand.  
I can see his eyes do this little back and forth thing across my face.   
Words fail me more than usual, but what's the point of talking when you can say it all with a kiss?  
I have never felt so desperately in need of another person, and I'm overcome with the urgent need to have him as close as possible.

Overcome with madness, lust and booze (which is quite a lethal combination) I allow myself to do what my sober self never would.  
I lunge forwards, grab hold of the front of his T.shirt and yank him down towards me.  
"Kiss me." I say. I demand. I beg.

He does.   
His tongue slips inside my mouth, his kiss gentle but demanding, and the weight of his body on top of mine is like nothing I've ever experienced.  
I feel him - all of him - pressed against me, and it feels incredible. It doesn't matter that his mouth is already on top of mine, I want him closer.

I inhale his shampoo, his shaving cream, aftershave, and that extra scent that's just all him. The most delicious smell I could ever imagine.  
I want to breathe him, kiss him, lick him, eat him, drink him.   
His lips, his tongue, taste so good.  
My arms circle him, pulling him even closer and then we roll over, tangled together, still kissing.

Oh God, this is really happening. Finally it is happening.

This is without a doubt the single most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.  
I met the most wonderful, uniquely talented, drop-dead gorgeous man, became friends with him, we fell in love and now we are virtually rolling about in a room together.   
Well, we are literally rolling around on the floor, as he moves onto his back, gathering me in his arms and pulls me harder against him.

With a pleasant flutter in my stomach, i manoeuvre myself so that I'm straddling his slim waist, and it's then that I feel the full extent of his arousal. That tell-tale sign. The unmistakable masculine bulge in his boxers. And now I'm more than aware that he is hard between my legs.

Holy fuuuuuck!!  
And yay, go me!

It feels like he's got the handle of a cricket bat tucked away in there, and I'm seriously losing it because I'm unable to think about anything but the raw desire to get him naked.  
He's like some crazy drug, addictive and thrilling and I just can't get enough.

I let out a gasp as I daringly move against him, crushing my groin against his, and he groans softly, low in his throat. And then I have to bite my lip when he brings his hips up to meet me.  
Never in my life have I despised cotton underwear as much as I do right now, for being thin enough to feel, but thick enough to not feel enough.  
My face is bright red, and we're moving in this sort of speeded-up reality. It reminds me of running down a hill and gradually gaining momentum. Everything is moving faster, and I swear I don't know how much more I can take as we rock against each other lustfully, with nothing more than a tiny scrap of material between us, and I'm throbbing away, desperate for more.

Our kisses grow more frantic and heated, and his hands, which have been running slowly up and down my sides, now dip beneath the T.shirt I'm wearing, tracing circles over my ribs.  
For a fleeting moment I tense, painfully aware of the soft fold of flesh around my middle. I really really don't want him to feel my love handles. My wobbly bits. My flab. So I try to suck my stomach in, but I'm struggling with breathing as it is, and the touch of his fingertips on my skin is incredible and spine-tingling. Making me lose all inhibitions, and just enjoy the sensations.  
The breath hitches in my throat as he moves higher and higher, and I'm willing him to keep going further until....  
suddenly I'm in his hands, and I make the kind of noise that Mark could only dream of hearing.

Oh God....  
My heart is beating against my breastbone, as I melt into his gentle caress. The pads of his thumbs, slightly rough from years of guitar playing, brush against my rosy nipples...which rise to his touch.

Reaching down, I slip my own hands impatiently under his T.shirt, running them across his mouth-wateringly smooth chest, and as they trail down his taut, solid abdomen I feel his muscles bunching and tightening in anticipation.

"Sammy...." He breaths unevenly between kisses, as my hands edge lower, hovering at his waistband.  
"...Sammy wait."  
I pause and pull back slightly so that I can look at him, and he me, as his large hands cover mine, pulling them up and pressing them to his chest.  
"Are you sure about this?"

I stare at him askance. "Er, yes. Why wouldn't I be? I love you Wolfie.....and I also fancy the arse off you!"

This makes him laugh, and I feel it rumble through his chest.  
"As fantastic as that is to know, I just want you to be absolutely certain....ya'know? I don't want us taking things further if you're not ready to. That's why I was keeping my distance a bit really, you've had a drink and I don't want you to regret anythi-"  
The rest of his words are lost against my mouth, as I press my lips to his. Desperate to kiss all of his reservations away.

I admire and appreciate his respect and consideration for me but I know he wants me as much as I want him. And the insatiable need I feel for this man has been building and is now an ache.   
I'm aching for him.   
I want us to connect physically as well as emotionally. I want to have him inside me, for the two of us to become one and know that we have done this together.

To my immense joy it seems highly likely that I'm going to be treated to some third date sex after all, as he seems to abandon all self-restraint. Rolling us over so he's above me now, I jump at the touch of his hands on my bare thighs.   
I just have enough time to suck in a shaky breath before his lips are on mine again, kissing me as though his life depends on it, whilst his hands seem to be everywhere at once.  
I can feel one roaming upwards, heading breast-wards again, whilst the other is edging South of the border to my knickers, his fingers feeling for my flesh.   
I swallow hard, completely incapable of movement.  
I am transfixed.

I have never felt so nervous, nervous yet turned on before.   
Mark never made me feel like this and neither did Nick. They didn't even come close. Or even Damon for that matter, in spite of his gorgeousness.  
All other sexual encounters prior to this moment, pale in comparison. I thought all of this was overrated, but now I feel stupid. Stupid and needy. Greedy.  
I am greedy for Brett.

Oh. My. God.

So this is foreplay? This is what sex is all about.  
No clumsy handling, or hurried, rough touching.   
No, Brett is taking his own sweet time, exploring me gently, and I can't emphasise enough just how amazing it feels.  
He is no novice at this malarkey, that's for sure. He is gloriously skilled and knows exactly how to whip a girl up into a frenzy.  
I'm grasping hold of his shoulders for dear life, unable to remain still now, writhing around as those long, skilled fingers administer slow, concentrated strokes.   
My hips buck involuntarily, and I moan into his mouth.

I'm going to die.  
He is actually going to kill me.   
RIP me.  
But hey, what a way to go...

We break from kissing and I choke out an incoherent noise.  
Normally I would be feeling extremely self conscious and inept but this maddening, exquisite tension is making it impossible to focus on anything other than his hands and what they're doing to me.   
He buries his face against the curve of my shoulder, and his cool breath ghosting over my skin just adds to the sensory overload.  
My fingers grip his hair, clinging to him tightly. 

My veins pulsate with heat, my limbs buzz with excitement, and the tightening I feel deep inside increases, spreading throughout my body, growing in intensity until I'm desperate for relief.   
My breathing comes in small pants, and then all at once a gigantic, tingling shudder erupts from the inside out, and I feel like a thread that's been pulled tight and snapped, rendering me a squirming mess of whimpers.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God...

I just...he just made me....

There's a sort of mini passing-out as my vision fades to black for a few seconds.  
That must be my soul leaving my body, I think, as the rush of pleasure surges through me in trembling waves, unraveling me like a ball of twine, threading its way downwards into the very soles of my feet.

"You okay, sweet?" Brett's voice pulls me back, sounding a little more raspy than usual, and as he kisses me tenderly on the cheek, I respond by nodding lamely. Temporarily lost for words.

Is it weird that I would be content if I actually died right now? Call me shallow but I would by dying semi-happy.  
Actually, happy is a gross understatement.   
I am fucking delirious.  
But I say 'semi' because as life-altering as this sexual experience has been, I am still not completely satisfied, and I won't be until I have him.  
And it's only fair that I should satisfy his needs too after that performance.  
What he has just done between my thighs, is nothing short of miraculous.

I am insatiable for the guy. Too much would never be enough.  
I've had a taste and I want more, and to my utter delight he ranks between my trembling thighs, his hands snaking down his boxers, availing himself to me.  
I can hardly wait to see him, to touch him, but begrudgingly I am forced to halt him.  
"Shit. I'm so sorry Brett, but I could really do with nipping to the loo." 

He smiles patiently, readjusts his shorts and lifts himself off me.  
"No problem. Actually, I'd rather we moved to the bed anyway."

"The bed is so small though." I point out. As if he needs reminding of the fact.

"Yeah but, there's room for one on top." He winks and grins salaciously.

Sweet Jesus, he will be the death of me. No doubt about it.

"I won't be a minute." I tell him, scrambling for the door on my shaky, putty-like legs.

I can't get to the bathroom quick enough, and I curse my bladder for it's weakness. Loathed to be parted from him. All I want to do is get back to Brett, get into bed.....and get down to it.

I pull the toilet chain and wash my hands as if I'm on a timer, then just as I turn to dry my hands, suddenly I'm struck by a wave of unexpected nausea.

No. No no no no no no no!

I close my eyes and do my best to ignore the way my guts twist and turn violently. I breath slowly and keep swallowing but my throat keeps clenching. No matter what, I can't stop the sickly feeling rising through my chest. Then I taste it at the back of my mouth. 

This isn't fair. Why do I suddenly feel like my stomach is a set of bag-pipes being vigorously squeezed?   
I was fine a couple of minutes ago. More than fine in fact. I was happily rolling around in a state of bliss, and now the very thought of all that rolling about is making me want to throw my guts up.  
I stumble back towards the toilet, drop to my knees and cling to the bowl as if it were a life raft.   
Maybe once I'm sick I'll feel better.  
With a heaving lurch of my stomach I can't stop the stream of rancid liquid that spews from my mouth.

Shit, it's so gross. I hate being sick at the best of times, I'm not a casual vomiter, I can't just throw up and then go about my business. Oh no. Not me.   
Usually when I've been sick all I want to do is curl up in a ball, and sleep for as long as I can before it's deemed as hibernation.  
But I can't do that now.  
I want to make the most of this night with Brett, not waste it sleeping. Not to mention that the last thing I want on earth is for him to see me being sick.   
Hell no.  
I'm not even a pretty crier, and I'm an even less of a pretty vomiter (not that anyone can look attractive whilst being sick, but still...)

Luckily for me, I haven't eaten anything today except for a few bites of the cheese and onion sandwich that I had on the train, so I bring up mostly liquid. Blackcurrant juice, booze, bile. Ugh.  
It tastes disgusting but thankfully I removed the onion from my sandwich, otherwise it could be far worse.

I try to be quiet, but it's a physical impossibility.   
Have you ever tried being sick quietly? It just doesn't work.  
I'm straining and retching and shaking, and this is how the love of my life finds me. Crouched on the floor, leaning over the toilet bowl, heaving my guts up.   
Obviously he's heard the unholy noise I'm making, even through the door and from down the hall.

Damn. 

Brett knocks twice on the door, and I hear his voice ring out but I can't respond as I'm mid-retch.  
This is enough to make him gingerly open the door a crack, because the bloody thing doesn't have a lock on it.  
Honestly, what savage doesn't have a lock on their bathroom door?  
Kevin, you have let me down.

"Aw, shit. Sammy." I hear Brett say, as he rushes over to me and places a large hand on my back.

I hastily wipe my mouth with the back of my hand then immediately wish I hadn't because what must he think of me? Although I don't want him seeing me dribbling either.  
"I...I'm okay....I'm okay." I repeat over and over between gasps.

"Clearly you're not. Did you mix your drinks? Maybe you've just had too much."

I shake my head helplessly, as he begins running his hand under the tap, making it icy cold so he can press it to my burning forehead.  
"No, I've drunk more than this before..." I exhale shakily. "I...oh God, I want to die....I feel awful." I wail, melodramatically.

But I really do feel that bad.   
Something isn't right. As much as it scares me to admit it, I've never felt like this crappy before. Aside from everything aching, it feels as though someone is piling heavy weights on me. Big concrete blocks, one on top of the other. And I feel like my insides are on fire. It's the weirdest feeling, everything is burning and now I'm panicking.

"Have you eaten enough? Do you need to take any more insulin?" Brett asks. He appears to have magically conjured a cloth as if from nowhere, and now he's wiping my face and mouth with it, brushing my hair out of the way, and I'm too exhausted to worry about what Kevin uses the cloth for.   
On second thoughts, I don't think I want to know.

"Um...I haven't actually had my insulin today." I confess, refusing to meet his eyes. "But it should be okay, because I've not really eaten anything." 

"What?" His hand falls away, and he stares at me with a look of disbelief. "Christ, Sammy! I'm no expert but even I know that if you're diabetic you have to take your insulin. You could make yourself ill."

Reluctantly I turn to give him a weak, see-how-not-ill-I-am smile.   
Needless to say he's unconvinced.   
Neither am I.  
I feel very ill, but at the same time I don't want him worrying and fussing over me. That's my dad's job, not my boyfriend's.  
"It'll be fine...I'll have it now....I'm fine."

He grasps my shoulders, gently hoisting me to stand and peers at my face with an anxious frown. "Sammy, you look terrible. I'm worried about you."

This is the last thing I wanted.   
He's now taking charge, and it's ridiculously embarrassing. I feel like a fraud. A pretend adult. I can't even look after myself, and now I'm all too aware of the age difference between us as he takes hold of me, supporting my limp, aching body against his own. He looks worried, and suddenly a bit older.  
He shouldn't have to do this. I shouldn't be his responsibility, but I feel like all my strength is ebbing away, and I'm afraid and completely at a loss. I don't know what to do.

"Don't worry, Sammy."   
I sag like a rag doll, and he's all but carrying me now, though he doesn't seem to mind. He's unflappable, and when he speaks his voice is calm and soothing.   
"It'll be alright.....I've got you."

 

And he has, quite literally as he scoops me up with relative ease, so that I'm sort of cradled in his strong arms, and my last coherent thought is, how lucky I am to have him.


	16. Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn't Have Fallen In Love With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seasons greetings lovely people! I hope you're all enjoying the holiday season :)  
> Firstly I'm going to apologise for taking so long in getting this chapter posted....and secondly I'm going to apologise in advance for, well....you'll see....
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, and it helps give me the incentive to keep writing. So a huge thank you to those of you who take the time to leave feedback, and thank you for taking the time to read my work, and having the patience to wait for updates..
> 
> Please don't hate me for this chapter, it'll be worth it if you stick around, I promise...  
> Sammy's story is far from over xD
> 
> ****************************

I slowly prise open my heavy eyelids, and I'm immediately struck by two things.  
The first is my head, it feels all muggy, as if it's swollen and throbbing like an inflated balloon that might pop at any minute.  
The second is my mouth, it's so dry I have to peel my lips apart and if I didn't know any better I'd think something crawled inside my mouth and died. There's this disgusting, unidentifiable taste that makes me want to vomit.

Oh, wait.

Oh no...that's right. I was being sick.  
I remember now, I was hurling the contents of my stomach up in a bathroom. Who's bathroom it was exactly, I can't rightly recall but it wasn't the bathroom at home, or at the flat.  
The rising panic tightens its grip on me as I try and adjust my eyes to the bright light.  
Where am I?  
The last thing I remember, was....oh God!

Slowly it's all coming back to me in hazy fits and starts.

Brett.  
He had hold of me.  
I remember tucking my face into his chest, and feeling so woozy, and sickly and sleepy.  
Then....it's all a complete, scary blank, and I'm afraid.  
Afraid of the blankness. I've no idea what has happened and I'm overcome with the urge to cry but I hold it in, somehow managing to keep a handle on my emotions as best I can.  
I can't afford to go losing my shit right now, I need to try and think clearly. I need to clear my head, to piece things together, but my mind is fogged up with pain and distorted thoughts.

I stare up at the ceiling for a while, at the strip lighting and the way it reflects off the white walls.  
The room is so bright, making me want to close my eyes again and drift back into the deep, dreamless sleep I was in. I feel like I have slept for years, but I'm still tired. It's all too tempting to succumb to the drowsiness, which would be only too easy, as I am laying down in a bed it seems. A bed which has cot-sides.  
But no.  
I need to figure out what the hell is going on here.

The strong smell of anti-bacterial cleaner fills my nose. I hear the beep...beep....beeping of a machine and slowly turn my head towards the source of the noise. The muscles in my neck are stiff and then I see Jane of all people, sitting slightly slumped in a chair by my bedside, sleeping it appears.

I open my mouth in an attempt to speak, to gain her attention, but nothing comes out but a rasp, and then just as I'm about to try again suddenly I'm aware of the sound of a door being pulled open on my left, and the noise of trolleys wheeling by, telephones ringing and various voices filter into the room from the corridor outside.  
I turn my head, following the sound, and then all at once he's there.

Brett. 

My Brett.

I don't know where the 'my' has sprung from, but that's the first thing that comes into my head as his tall frame lurches towards me.

"Sammy!" He exclaims, as he strides over. "Christ! You had me so bloody worried."

The next thing I know, he's above me. Leaning down, his face hovering above mine.  
He looks worn out and alarmingly dishevelled. He's got the slight dusting of dark stubble on his chin and around his mouth, which indicates he hasn't shaved, and his hair is rumpled and not as glossy as it usually is. I catch the distinct hint of cigarette smoke about him, which is more noticeable in this environment due to all the disinfectant, but it's still quite out of character for Brett. Usually he smells all fresh, clean and delicious.

I couldn't really care less though, because all that matters is him being here.  
He's here and now I'm seriously struggling to hold back the tears.

"Oh...it's you." I croak, very inarticulately. It's not what I mean to say, but I think he gets the gist, as I reach up and cup the side of his lovely face in my trembling hand.  
It's only by doing this that my attention is now drawn to the fact that I have a needle inserted in the vein at the back of my hand. How did I not notice this blindingly obvious irritant? It's held precariously in place by two meagre strips of white tape, and a quick glance to my right confirms that the tube is connected to an intravenous drip.

Oh how I loath needles of this kind. Not that I'm overly fond of any needle per say, I mean come on.....what sadist would be? But being a type1 diabetic and having to inject myself daily means I've had to get used to them. I have no choice other than to take my insulin shots in the thigh, stomach or upper arm, as part of my routine I'm accustomed to it now unfortunately, but these needles they stick into your veins are a different kettle of fish. They're irritating at best, and if you catch them on anything, they hurt like a bastard.

It dawns on me then that my pesky medical condition must be the cause of all this. It has to be the reason I'm here, there's no other explanation.

"What, what happened Brett? Why am I here? Actually.....where is here? What hospital is this? How did I end up in hospital? I was just sick that's all. I don't get it. Did I black out or something? I don't remember. I can't remember anything. I know you helped me out of the bathroom, but it's all just a blank after that. Oh God, I'm so sorry." 

"Hey hey, slow down." Brett commands in a firm but soothing tone. It has an instant calming effect which is enough to stop me from rambling and hyperventilating.  
"There you go again, apologising when there's absolutely no need. Daft arse!"  
He says this kindly with laughter in his voice, and his lopsided smile is one of pure relief. His aim is to make me smile too, and it works.  
He gently takes my needle-free hand in his, and continues.  
"You did sort of pass out, so I called an ambulance. You're in the Manchester Royal infirmary, you've been seriously ill but you're gonna be fine. Okay? Don't panic. The doctors will be able to explain it better than I can, but everything's gonna be alright now."

He gives my hand a reassuring little squeeze, and I feel my heart swell.  
"I know I'll be alright as long as I have you." I hear myself saying, and then immediately wish I hadn't because I feel him tense up. And unless I'm mistaken, he seems hesitant to look me in the eye now.

Oh Jesus. What have I said? What have I done? 

Just then Jane wakes up, so I'm not able to press him. She springs into action, and I'm as touched by her fussing over me as I am over Brett's tenderness.  
She rushes out to inform one of the nurses that I'm awake, and for want of something better to say I find myself asking Brett how long I've been asleep for.

"Well it's Tuesday today." he informs me, quickly glancing down at his watch as if he's also lost track of time.  
Perhaps he really is a time Lord and whisked me off to some distant alien planet in the TARDIS, then had to erase the adventure from my memory.

"Tuesday!" I cry aghast. "It can't possibly be Tuesday! How could I have been out of it since Saturday night? Shit! Brett, are you sure?"

I'm hoping he's got it wrong somehow. Not that it's likely. This alarming news only adds validity to my Doctor Who theory.

"Quite sure." He says, and now he's looking all serious and sad. "I'm sure because I've been here with you since Saturday..."  
He pauses, and turns his head toward the window. "And I'm also sure because I was meant to be back in London yesterday. There's the album to promote, you see. Not to mention the tour."

Ah.  
There it is.  
This is why he's suddenly become all distant, and I can't stand it. I feel sicker than ever, and this time it takes gigantic effort on my part to not start blubbering unattractively like a baby.

"When...when will you have to leave?" I manage to choke out.

Brett heaves an enormous sigh, and rubs at his temples with the tips of his long, elegant fingers.  
It's hardly surprising that he can play the piano, I think absentmindedly, as I look at them. They're undeniably pianist fingers. 

"I'll have to head back later tonight." I hear him saying, though I'm focusing most intently on trying to quell the pang of unbearable disappointment. "Our manager wanted me back sooner, but he'll have to get over it. Sammy I'm so sorry, truly I am. If I could put it off for another couple of days I would. Believe me."

"Don't be silly, it's....it's fine."

"There's just so much bloody stuff to sort out, events to go to, packing to be done and-"

"I said it's fine!" I snap, and he instantly quietens. 

Brett is no fool. He knows that it isn't fine, in fact it couldn't be less- fine and he doesn't look anywhere near as thrilled or excited as he should be, given that he's about to embark on a life-altering adventure. His expression bears more resemblance to a man that has been sentenced to deportation, rather than a man who's dreams of rock stardom are finally coming to fruition.  
Which is when I realise how very selfish and immature I'm being. I knew this was on the cards, and now I've no choice other than to be grown up about it.  
No point in pouting like a spoiled child. 

Besides, I love him. Which means I want him to be happy, not feeling guilty about having to go away. If our fledging romance has any chance of standing the test of time, I'll have to endure the separation. It all comes with the territory. I need to be supportive.

"I'm sorry Brett....I'm being a bitch."

"No you're not, don't say that." He argues, gallantly.

Barely able to suppress the tremor in my voice, I continue feebly. "No I am, I shouldn't resent you for going away. This is an amazing time for you, I'm sorry for being a stroppy cow. I'm just going to miss you so much."

So very very much.

He leans in closer and rubs the tip of my nose with his, a curiously unexpected and sweet gesture, which makes me want to hold onto him forever and never let go.

"You are not being a stroppy cow, far from it." He smiles at me sadly. "I wish I didn't have to go. I hate leaving you like this. The timing is bollocks....but I will write when I can, and ring you."

"Every day?" I venture, hopefully. 

"Twice a day." He adds, and there's a sincerity in his eyes that is deeply moving.

But like the needy brat I am, I push for further reassurance.  
"You promise?" 

"Scouts honour." He gives a mock salute with his hand, which makes me laugh, even though I don't much feel like laughing.

"You always say that. You're no scout, Wolfie."

"I'm not particularly honourable either but I always want to keep my promises to you."

I give a watery smile, trying to think practically. It's proving no easy task, and I'm well aware I might sound neurotic but I just want to cover all bases. "Before you go make sure you leave your telephone number then I can reach you from here, they'll have a pay phone I can use won't they? And I'll give you my home number, just in case I go back to my mum's for a few days when I get out of here."

"It's fine, your mum has already sorted all of that. Just in case I had to leave whilst you were still out of it."

"What?!"

He makes a slightly pained face. "Oh yeah, sorry I should've mentioned it sooner but it slipped my mind...your mum came back yesterday. She's just popped home for a shower and change of clothes. She should be back shortly."

"So you've met my mother?" I trill, somewhat alarmed. "And....and was she okay with you?"

He gives a small, somewhat nervous little laugh which betrays more than just a fraction of anxiety. "Um...yeah, why wouldn't she be?"

"I know my mother." I stare down at my white-knuckled hands, which have been inadvertently clenching the bedsheets.  
"She can be a bit, well, after everything that happened with Mark...I think she would've preferred if I'd stayed single a bit longer." I admit. 

Brett nods his head understandingly. "That's only to be expected. She's your mum and has your best interests at heart. I'm sure meeting me came as a bit of a shock but she's been more concerned about your health to be honest, which is understandable."

I'm still trying to get my head around all of this when Jane coughs pointedly, alerting us to the arrival of a doctor.

He introduces himself and asks me how I'm feeling, before launching into an in-depth explanation regarding my hospitalisation.  
'Diabetic Ketoacidosis' or DKA for short, is brought on by not taking insulin correctly, and the lack of insulin results in raised acid levels in the blood. The body then switches to burning fatty acids which produces acidic 'ketones' (whatever they are) causing weight loss - which is what I had been aiming for - but other unsavourily symptoms such as vomiting, weakness, confusion, dehydration and occasionally loss of consciousness, amongst other nasties, are sure to follow.  
"If left untreated...", He informs me gravely, "...It can result in coma and possibly even death."

His proclamation hits me like a wrecking ball, and I feel the full-on extent of humiliation and shame for being such an idiot.  
I put myself in harms way, and was willing to risk my own life in order to lose a bit of weight.

A lone tear escapes from the corner of my left eye, and the right one quickly follows suit, until silent salty teardrops are retracing the path of their predecessors.

He goes on to say that I'll have to remain here for a few more days under observation, until my sugar levels have stabilised, but all in all, I'm on the road to recovery.  
He leaves, and Brett carefully begins wiping my tears away with the palms of his large hands.  
"Aw, please don't cry Sammy. There's nothing to worry about now, you're safe."

"Thanks to you!" I manage, even though it's hard to squeeze the words out passed the lump in my throat. Brett's quick-thinking saved me, and there are no words befitting enough.  
My tears aren't just shed from relief, it's also the impending loss. I love this man so much, I'm going to feel completely lost without him.

Not that I have time to dwell on those thoughts or feelings for long though, as a nurse arrives and begins trying to talk me into eating something, which in my churned-up state, is the very last thing on my mind.  
But I have to make the effort to undo some of the damage that has been done. It's common knowledge now that I've developed an unhealthy relationship with food, firstly by stuffing my face with chocolate when I'd arrived in London, and then by barely eating at all, and missing insulin doses.

My dad arrives back from the hospital cafeteria just in time to join in with the lecture about me taking better care of myself, and all eyes in the small room are on me as I study the dodgy sounding offerings on the hospital menu at length.  
I highly doubt I'll be able to stomach any of it, but the sooner I start eating, the sooner I can get off the intravenous fluids, and the sooner I can get out of this place. 

In the end, Brett once again saves the day by offering to bring me some food in, and he doesn't object to my asking for a McDonalds hamburger, in spite of his vegetarianism. 

Whilst he's gone, Jane helps me along to the facilities so I can shower and freshen up - though I think I might just die from embarrassment when Brett returns and finds me in my tatty old Miffy the Rabbit dressing gown, which Jane conveniently thought to pack when they made the journey up.  
But this is the least of my problems, especially as now we're alone, Jane ceases the opportunity to fill me in on what I've missed in my absence. 

To say ignorance is bliss, is a bit of an understatement, and I listen with increasing trepidation as she tells me of how my dad had initially blamed Brett for my health taking a nose-dive. Which is of course, absolutely absurd.  
Brett wasn't to know that I'd been neglecting myself so badly, but even when Jane reproached my foolish father for his unfair assumptions, he'd still been angry at Brett for allowing me to drink.  
And worse still, my dear mother in all her infinite wisdom, had apparently bent my dad's ear about letting me get 'mixed up' with the 'wrong sort'  
In other words she seemed to believe that my being involved with Brett had led to my eating disorder, and that the 'London crowd' I'd fallen in with, were obviously a bad lot, and that it was only by a pure stroke of luck that I wasn't addicted to drugs yet or doing the rounds on the pub circuit as a groupie.

Thankfully, my dad vehemently shot-down her preposterous and unfounded concerns, but...

"Well, that Damian called up the flat on Saturday night asking to speak to you, and your father told him you'd gone away for the weekend with your boyfriend." Jane says in a harsh whisper, as she helps tussle my be-needled hand into the sleeve of my clean pyjama top.

My guts twist into anxious knots.  
Oh dear. I hadn't 'officially' ended it with Damon, and now I feel like a complete cow.  
"Oh no! What did Damon say?"

"He got a bit shirty actually, saying he was your boyfriend! As you can imagine, your father was none too impressed. He naturally presumed Brett was your boyfriend right from the beginning."

"Oh hell no!" 

This day has gone from bad to worse, to absolutely bloody catastrophic, and I feel myself inwardly crumple as Jane holds me dutifully.

I never wanted to hurt Damon, I certainly didn't want him finding out that me and Brett were actually a 'thing' like this.  
Then there's my mum blaming my dad for letting me socialise with what she's wrongly deemed to be a shady crowd, she and my dad both blaming Brett for supposedly leading me astray and not taking better care of me.  
When in actual fact, I'm the one to blame, no one else. 

"If it's any consolation the pair of them have come to their senses now. Emotions were running high Sam, you'll always be their little girl. It's only too easy to point fingers when you're upset and worried, you must understand."  
I take the arm she offers, and we slowly head back along the corridor to my room.  
"Brett is a real treasure, anyone with half a wit of sense can see how much he cares for you. Did you see the flowers he brought in? My goodness! Peonies...." She sighs wistfully. "The Chinese believe they represent romance, good luck, and.....happy marriage."

"But Brett isn't Chinese." I point out facetiously, before my wild imagination starts running away with itself and I find myself picturing Brett in a dashing suit with coat-tails, complete with carnation in his top buttonhole, standing at the altar with a radiant smile.

Well, a girl is allowed to daydream.

I hadn't actually noticed the flowers, but when I get back to the room they're the first thing I look for.

"I um, I didn't know which kind of flowers you liked so...I got you those." He tells me upon his return, as I thank him. I don't think I've ever seen, or perhaps noticed peonies before and they have the most beautiful lush, rounded, soft pink blooms.  
"They are considered a bit old fashioned I'm afraid, but....well, I thought you might think roses were too much of a cliché, and I didn't know what else to get so I got peonies instead. My mum used to grow them."

"Oh Brett, they're absolutely gorgeous! Thank you so much. That's really lovely of you."

 

He sits on the edge of my bed, chatting away with Jane and my dad as I eat my hamburger. It takes me quite a long time, and I almost choke a couple of times from laughter whilst trying to eat.  
Of course Brett is trying to cheer me up. Trying to take my mind off things, and keep me distracted. Which I am more than happy to be.  
I have absolutely no idea what the future holds for us, and facing up to the reality of him going away is beyond scary. I am completely, unapologetically freaked out by what's gone on today, and I just want to hibernate until next Spring or something, in the hope it will all be over when I wake up.

 

A little while later, my mum arrives, and I find myself getting tearful all over again.  
She holds me tightly, weeping with me, whilst reproaching me for my stupidity.

"You stupid, stupid girl..." She bawls, "Don't you ever do anything like that again, do you hear me? Nothing and no one is worth putting yourself at risk for."  
She emphasises the word 'no one' and shoots a pointed look across the room at Brett, and it's a look that suggests she could think of quite a few ways she could kill him, and make it look like an accident.

Thankfully, he doesn't notice, as he's fiddling about with what suspiciously looks like a gift bag, but he doesn't give it to me or mention anything, so I'm forced to return my attention back to my mother.  
"I won't ever do anything like this again mum, I promise. It's nobody's fault, I was being an idiot. But I realise that now. So please, don't keep on at me." I beg. I don't have the energy for this right now. I feel like I've been emotionally beaten to a pulp.

She relents, and I breath a huge sigh of relief. She's sparing me the lecture.....for now. I'm not naive enough to think that I'm off the hook. Far from it. But for now, she's choosing to let the matter rest.  
Perhaps the same can be said for her opinion of Brett, as the two begin to converse and her frostiness thaws a little. Which is enough to make me cautiously optimistic.

 

When the dreaded time of Brett's departure rolls around, I'm proud of myself for not completely going to pieces. I'm proud that I don't burst into tears or ugly-cry into his shirt.

I would've liked some privacy, and Jane does manage to wrangle my father away under the pretence of getting a coffee, but this tactic does not wash with my mother. She makes it blatantly clear that she isn't going anywhere, and insists on hovering in the corner awkwardly, as Brett and I say our goodbyes.  
He threads his hand through my hair, and holds the back of my head gently as he kisses me tenderly and deeply. Though he's mindful of being respectful, not wanting to overdo it in front of my mother.

He whispers "I love you." into my ear, and I tell him I love him too, not caring one bit about my mum being present.  
So what if she disapproves? I've been on an emotional roller-coaster today, and I won't let Brett walk out of here without telling him just how much I care for him.

I give him one final big kiss on the lips, and then he leaves.....

And then I fall apart. 

I feel like I'm crumpling in on myself, and I wail and slobber all over my mums' shoulder.  
Thankfully, she doesn't seem to mind.

 

***********************

 

Manchester - 1995

 

That was the last I ever saw of Brett Lewis Anderson, aka 'Wolfie' - well in the flesh at least.  
It would have been easier I'm sure, if it had been the last I'd seen of him, but his face being plastered all over every music magazine from 1993 onwards, has made that an impossibility.  
Not seeing his face again would've made moving on easier. It would've made the whole sorry affair less painful, and yet I can't deny that I still find it strangely comforting.

Suede are everywhere, from Top of the Pops to the Brit Awards.  
The band were catapulted to fame, and whilst I still absolutely adore their music, I can't help but feel so heartbreakingly sad whenever I hear his distinctive, beautiful voice or see his wretchedly adorable face.

I still remember how he called the hospital ward twice a day, during my stay.  
Everything seemed fine.  
Then once I went home.....nothing.  
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

At first I gave him time and space, not wanting to come across as the needy, clingy girlfriend. I convinced myself that he was just busy touring, and promoting and recording.....but after an agonising month or two of silence, I tried calling him at Moorhouse Road.

"The number you have dialled has not been recognised." The operators voice informed me over and over again each time I attempted to ring, and the only conclusion I could reach was that the number has been written down wrong.

In vain I telephoned Jane, frantically asking her to look for the crumpled piece of paper that I'd initially written Brett's number down on, that night when his sister railroaded us into agreeing to go to the hospital together.  
I still remember it as if it were yesterday, but as time slips by and Jane couldn't find the number I began to lose hope.  
And the anxiety and feelings of bitter rejection set in. Seeping into my very bones.

Brett & Co's number is ex-directory, so it's not in the phone book, and by the time Jane found the misplaced piece of paper, it had been months since I'd last spoke with Brett.  
Suede have shot to mega-stardom, with singles in the chart, and that's when Mark's words returned to haunt me.....

"Once he's rich and famous he'll soon get bored and dump you. You'll be just another girl that he'll probably forget all about."

Any hope I had been harbouring dispersed rapidly when I at last rang the house, and to my immense regret, I ended up speaking to a seriously disgruntled, but slightly smug-sounding Damon, who told me quite categorically that Brett wasn't home, and that if I hadn't heard from him by now chances are he had been stringing me on all along, just for revenge, as he'd predicted.

I can't believe that of Brett though, I still refuse to believe it.  
So instead I apologised profusely to Damon for any pain or humiliation I inadvertently caused, but made the soul-destroying decision not to try and contact Brett again.

After all, he has (or did have) my home number and address, but I never receive a single letter or call, which in the end leads me to believe that Mark was right. 

Brett has forgotten me, or probably met someone else.  
Someone with less baggage. Someone who isn't so insecure and doesn't end up dangerously ill as a result of their petty hang-ups.  
Someone who doesn't have a dodgy medical condition, over protective parents and a hostile mother.

 

"It's such a shame though." Rae muses, for what must be the gazillionth time over the past couple of years. "He was so into you. It makes no sense. I mean, look at that camera he bought you....it must've cost him a mint, why would he spend so much money on you or put so much thought into a present if he didn't really care?"

I shrug and force a half-hearted smile, recalling the moment when I opened the gift bag that Brett had left in my hospital locker as a surprise for me to find after he'd left, and I almost passed out at the sight of a brand spanking new, all singing and dancing, Canon EOS-1 camera.  
His thoughtfulness, had me in tears yet again, and in spite of the way things turned out, I still used it throughout my photography course at college. Even though it pained me every time I picked it up, and removed the lens cap.

"It's all in the past now Rae." I conceded. "There's no point in keep looking back. It obviously wasn't meant to be."

 

She eyes me sceptically, but I won't be drawn into this again.  
I won't and can't keep raking over old ground.  
Just because I haven't been back to London since.  
Just because I've finally passed my driving test, and I'm returning to pay my dad a visit, instead of him having to make the four hour drive up here.  
That doesn't mean I want to start talking and thinking about Brett again.  
That was a long time ago, and that chapter of my life is most definitely closed.

I had to accept that there's no further point in mooning over what now would never be. 

I should've known better than to fall for the seductive charms of a charismatic rockstar. They collect girls like other men collect stamps. I shouldn't have fallen in so deep. A musician is good for a night, but not for life. Now suddenly I want to cry again. I want to cry at the complete unfairness of it all. Of the complete unfairness of life. 

And that night as I lay awake in bed, I allow myself to.  
Even though I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn't cry anymore over 'him' - as Brett is now referred to, because for some reason I still find speaking his name or hearing it, unfathomably painful.

I wrongly thought I was all cried out, and had dust for tears by now but obviously I was wrong.  
I cry and cry and cry.  
Why am I crying so much, when I've moved on with my life?  
I'm 21 now, and I'll be starting university next week. My life is coming together, my health is good, and I've moved on. I really have. I've even been on a few dates since...  
But still these teardrops keep coming and deep down I know why I'm crying, sobbing into my pillow...

I'm crying for my naive 17/18 year old self who thought she was in love and going to be loved forever. I cry for how scared I felt waking up in that hospital, confused and embarrassed. I cry for falling in love with a man I shouldn't have, who has long since probably fallen in love with another woman.  
I cry for our lost friendship, and for the fact that maybe I shouldn't have given up so easily trying to reach him.  
At the very least, I realise now that I should have sought out closure of some kind.  
I cry because I've had no idea what to do with my heart since, and for it being sealed up in a steel box for so long, aching to heal.

But no one has ever come close...

Damn Rae, for stirring up all of these old feelings.  
Of course I pretend that it's no longer a big deal, but it's a massive deal and always will be.  
He was the love of my life.  
But even if I tried to search for him, to reach him now, would he even remember?  
Could I stand the sting of humiliation if he didn't?  
What if all I do is open up old wounds?  
Worst of all though, I think, what if it doesn't?

 

Perhaps it's time to stop thinking 'what if?'


	17. Don't You Want Me Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N*
> 
> I quite literally wrote this chapter instead of sleeping, just so I could get it posted. So I'll apologise in advance for any shoddiness.  
> Also, just want to say a huge thank you to the new readers who have left comments and kudos. It's greatly appreciated and I hope you continue to enjoy the story (:
> 
>  
> 
> +++++++++++++++++++++++++

I arrive in London much later than I had hoped to, feeling completely frazzled after having made the somewhat ill-thought out decision to drive down from Greater Manchester.  
It's the furthest I've ever driven since passing my test last year, and at the time I did make a promise to myself not to be one of those dithery types that women drivers are all too often unfairly accused of being.

I've never shied away from motorways, so had presumed that the 213 mile slog couldn't be all that bad.  
Armed with a pack of cigarettes, glucose tablets (which I always keep a pack of in case of emergencies, should I feel the onset of a hypo) and several mix tapes, I had set off feeling a sense of optimism, adventure and even excitement.

Things hadn't exactly gone according to plan before I left though, misplaced house keys, a few last minute errands to run, and before I knew it it was well past midday.  
The journey itself was long, tiring and tedious, but I had wrongly thought that the worst was behind me, after trekking down the M1 for what felt like an eternity.  
However, getting around London by car, is by far the worst experience I've ever gone through as a road-user. 

The traffic, Jesus the traffic.

I should've anticipated this, but in my haste to get here and the misguided sense of self confidence, it somehow slipped my mind that if you try and cram too many busses and cars into an area that wasn't originally intended to capacitate such high volumes of vehicles, the result is utter chaos.  
Then there's the matter of having to negotiate your way around mercilessly, casting all politeness aside, as you quickly realise all other motorists are ruthless.  
It reminds me of Wacky Races, or playing Mario Kart, minus the psychedelic migraine-inducing levels.  
Rainbow road is replaced by the drab concrete of the ugly Westway. That's without even mentioning the never-ending battle of avoiding kamikaze pedestrians , motorcycle couriers and cyclists who weave in out of the lanes. They must have a death wish.  
At the very least I hope they all have a donor card.

By the time I take the slip road onto the A41 my nerves are in tatters and I have a thumping headache.  
My bottom is numb, my right leg is beginning to cramp, and I long to stretch my legs, and perhaps take another shower to freshen up. It is after all, late August and it gets unfeasibly hot in the cramped confines of my Ford Fiesta, which is a glorified sardine tin on wheels.

And yet, instead of heading to Dad and Jane's new 1 bedroom maisonette in Kentish Town (they moved last year in order to be nearer the shop) which is what any sane, level-headed person would do, especially as it's getting late, I find myself hopelessly lost in central London all because I felt the bizarre urge to find Moorhouse Road.

Don't ask me why.

I don't know why I thought that was a good idea. In actual fact I sort of knew deep down that it was a bad idea. Probably very bad in fact.  
For several reasons.  
The most rather blinding obvious one being that I've no clue how to get to Notting Hill, and I couldn't read an A to Z if my life depended on it.

Why didn't I just follow the directions my dad had given me over the phone? They would've practically led me straight to his front door, but oh no. Not me.  
Instead the piece of paper that I scribbled the instructions he gave me on is cast aside on the passenger seat next to my hand bag.  
I had to go and do something stupid on a whim, it's so typically me, and for what?  
To take a trip down memory lane? To try and catch a glimpse of Brett? To simply stare at the house for awhile and sink into a bottomless pit of regret?  
I have no idea, all I do know is that sometimes my own impulsive stupidity scares me. Like, genuinely scares me.  
I am now lost, and don't even know how to get from where I am to Camden.

Feeling a panic-attack coming on, I hastily pull into a side street and let out an audible cry of relief when I see a public telephone box on the corner.  
Praise the Lord, hallelujah!  
I practically abandon the car by the roadside and scramble out, my dead legs not moving as fast as I'd like them to.

It smells dodgy in the phone box, and I absentmindedly find myself wondering what causes that odd, stale, almost plasticky odour that seems to permeate the air.  
I rummage around in my jeans pocket, searching for change and the little piece of paper that has my dads telephone number written on it.  
I lift the receiver, pop a fifty pence piece into the coin slot, and punch in the number.

It rings for a while and I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet, filled with irrational impatience.  
They should be expecting me, so why is it taking them so long to answer their phone? 

Then there's a slight click, indicating that someone has picked up, followed by a polite voice, distinctly male but most definitely not my dads gruff one, at the end of the line.

"Hello?" They draw the word out slightly, and I feel my brow furrow with confusion.

"Hello? Dad?..." I ask sceptically. "Is that you?"  
I know that it isn't, not unless he's had some sort of vocal chord transplant, but I ask nonetheless.

Silence.

Okay, so maybe they have guests or something. A friend, Jane's brother....I'm pretty sure he emigrated to Australia a few years back but hey, who knows? Perhaps he's visiting too and was just nearest to the phone as it rang.  
There must be a simple explanation.

"Erm, can I speak to Alan please?" I ask hopefully.

"Alan?" The anonymous voice parrots, sounding just as confused as I am. "There's no Alan here."

"Jane then?"

"No Jane either, I think you've got the wrong number love."

Sensing that they're about to hang up, I try one last time in vain. Even though I know it's a long shot. "No wait a minute please, I can't have the wrong number....is that Ed?"

Is that Jane's brothers name? I'm not entirely certain.  
It's either Ed or Ted.  
Or Jed.  
Oh....God knows.  
This is bad.

"No it isn't, this is Alex." The man says patiently. "There's no Alan, no Jane and no Ed here, sorry."

Wait.....did he just say?

"Alex?!" I gasp a little too loudly into the receiver. 

It can't be. Surely it can't be 'the' Alex.  
Can it?

"Alex....is that you? I mean, are you Alex James....like, from Blur?" 

I hear him breath a deep sigh, one which suggests more than just a hint of exasperation. "Look who is this and how did you get my number? It's ex-directory."

"Alex it's me, Sam....Sam who went out with Damon, remember?" I babble. "Look I don't expect you to remember me, I wasn't seeing him for long and it was ages ago but-"

"Sam!" He exclaims cheerily, taking me by surprise, and I have to steady myself by clutching onto the little metal shelf which sits at the side of the telephone. This is all too weird.  
"Yeah I remember, sorry I thought you were a fan. Get a lot of that these days."

Fans. Oh yes, of course.

Last year was a massive year for Blur.  
Damon an Co had upped the ante, desperate for commercial success, and they'd finally achieved their long sought after chart-topping success with their third, and most popular album, Parklife, and they swept the boards at the Brit Awards.

"Congratulations by the way!" I tell him hurriedly, and genuinely mean it. "Loved the last album. I'm still a fan."

I can envisage Alex beaming into the phone as his smile becomes audible in his tone. "N'aww....cheers Sam. How are you doing? It's really nice hearing from you after all this time, what a bolt from the blue....ere, you're not after speaking to Damon though are you? Because he, um, well he don't live here no more."

I smile to myself and shake my head, before realising that this response is of no use.  
I've read about Damon just recently in Smash Hits magazine of all places, and the feature mentioned how he and his girlfriend 'Justine' of the band Elastica shared a posh pad together in Kensington with their two cats, Benjamin and.....well whatever it's name is...

"No I'm not ringing to speak to Damon." I say, but before I can explain that for some reason I've dialled the wrong number, Alex interrupts me and what he says next catches me completely off guard.

"Oh, did you want to speak to Brett?"

Ah....

"Brett?" I force myself to say his name and try to sound carefree and casual. As if saying 'I don't know of any Brett. Who is this Brett you speak of?  
"Er, no. No not at all. Not really. It's quite a funny story actually, you'll laugh at this....I must've accidentally picked up the wrong piece of paper. I thought this was my dads number." I force a strained laugh.

"You still have it though, after all this time." Alex states, and I'm not sure I like what he might be implying. "Why would you keep it if you didn't want to speak to Brett....or Damon? Whichever."

I gulp. That's a very good question, and I can't find an adequate answer. If I'd just thrown it away then this wouldn't have happened. There wouldn't have been this mix-up, and I'd be speaking to my dad now, good old dad. Or the adorably dippy Jane.  
But what if, by some weird twist of fate this was meant to happen. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe I was destined to hang on to this number, having tucked it into my address book, so that I would accidentally contact Alex.....and he's asking me now if I want to speak to Brett.

Oh shit what do I do?

"Just out of interest...." I hear myself saying, and it's like I'm powerless to stop myself. "...is Brett there? Because if he's not busy then maybe....well, I suppose I could say hi. It wouldn't do any harm would it?"

"Oh, he doesn't live here anymore I'm afraid Sam." 

Ouch.  
Okay, the little voice in my head tells myself sternly. It's no big deal. I wasn't trying to reach him, so it doesn't matter. Not really.  
But the sudden crush of disappointment makes me want to cry.  
What's wrong with me?

"He's living over in Highgate now. I don't know the address, it's some big old mansion what belongs to the masons or something." Alex is saying now and my brain is frantically trying to take in and store all this new information. "I did have his number but he changed it after someone graffitied it all over the underground. Honestly, his name and number was spray painted on the walls of near enough every station between here and South of the river. He got so much hassle from fans and haters. I tell ya, there's some right wankers about." 

"Right. Yeah. Ain't there just."  
I have no idea what else to say. All I can think about now is how I can try to reach Brett.  
"So he is okay though? I mean, how is he doing?"

There's a contemplative pause, and for some reason my heart is beating wildly in my mouth. Which is completely ridiculous, it's not as if Brett will be married and have several kids in tow, that would've most definitely been in the gossIp columns of the music mags, so what am I so irrationally jittery about?

"To tell you the truth, I don't really know." He says at long last, sounding almost sad. "He's become a bit reclusive. No one really sees anything of him. He keeps himself to himself. Jarvis would probably be able to tell you more, he's still in touch with Brett's sister....can you believe it? Sly old dog! Anyway, I don't have his number but I do know his address, he's got a place just up the road from here in Ladbroke Grove..."

 

After thanking Alex, I make my way back to the car and begin my search for Jarvis' house.  
I've no pen on me, so I have to keep repeating the address over and over aloud like a mantra so I don't forget it.  
Wow, I really do suck at being an adult. I'm 21 now, and I still don't know my arse from my elbow.  
All the while as I'm searching, following road signs that don't even seem to know the way, and stopping occasionally to ask for directions, I know that I should be asking the way to Camden instead, but I'm like a crazed woman on a mission, and I just can't help myself.

Eventually at long last I find myself on the right street, but when I pull up I wonder what the hell I am doing.  
What could I possibly hope to gain by this? It can only lead to trouble. To disappointment. To heartache.  
Brett is in the past, and that's where I need to leave him. There's no place for me in his future, just like there's no place for him in mine.  
I've grown up....kind of.  
I've moved on....sort of.  
I have. 

I carry on a stern conversation with myself in my head, and turn the key in the ignition.  
Enough of this already. I need to just forget this, and get to my dads place and just....just be. Just carry on with my life. Enjoy my visit.  
I don't need Brett.

But I want him.  
That is, I at least want to see him. I want to see him so much it actually hurts, but I force myself to be sensible and logical.  
He didn't want me.  
And that's all there is to it.  
Whatever closure I was hoping to find, this was a mistake and my dad will be frantic by now. Out of his head with worry.

Just as I make the decision to pull away from the kerb and flick my indicator on, something suddenly catches my attention.  
From the corner of my eye I see the front door to Jarvis' new place open, and I'm forced to do a double-take when I see an eerily familiar figure who's resemblance to Brett is so striking I almost think it actually is him for a moment. But as I hesitate, and strain against my restrictive seatbelt, craning my neck to get a better look, I realise it is in fact her...

Brett's sister. 

It has to be.  
They share the same bone structure, and her side profile is so akin to his you'd think they were twins and not just mere siblings. 

I'm dithering now, I should just be on my way - and sooner rather than later - if I put my foot down I can be away from here before she even has chance to notice me.  
But I'm not moving, and she's gliding elegantly down the steps in her little clippy-cloppy heels, getting closer.

Shit it's looking like she's going to walk directly passed where I am, and my car is sticking out at an awkward angle so I'm drawing attention to myself. I may as well have a neon flashing sign on the roof that reads "woo-hoo, Blandine! Over here!"

This is crazy.  
My stomach cramps as I stare at the relative of the object of my thoughts. My blood seems to fizz around inside my veins, brought on by my momentarily mistaking her for him.  
How can it be possible that Brett still has such an impact on me?

The last brief (very brief) and casual relationship I had, which lasted all of about two weeks, was with a guy called Jason who I met at college. He was an enormous hairy man, who made me feel delicate....and Brett most certainly isn't anything like him.  
Jason's big, bear-like arms would wrap around me sturdily, almost heavily, and now I'm recalling the way the hairs on his chest rubbed against my breasts. The way he would squeeze his huge frame into my much too small bed.

He was a very sweet guy, and he made me laugh, and he was absolutely nothing like Brett.  
At the time, I found this weird but comforting. If I couldn't be with Brett then I'd date people who were the polar opposite, and I figured I'd got over the overwhelming attraction I'd once felt for him.  
.....now I'm not so sure.

I watch, still completely static, as Blandine draws nearer. She doesn't appear to be wearing any makeup, her hair has been chopped into a neat long, bob of sorts, and she has on a pair of smart black trousers and matching jacket.  
She's also carrying something in her arms, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is. And it's my damn nosiness that leads to what happens next... because whilst I'm trying to figure out what the strange object is, she spots me. 

I actually make accidental eye contact with her, and even though I quickly lower my head and pretend to be rummaging around in my drivers door pocket for a phantom something or other, she makes a beeline straight for me.

"Excuse me....hello?" She calls, and now I'm really panicking, seriously contemplating making a speedy getaway that would make Nigel Mansell look like Miss Daisy.

I ignore her, head still down, pretending to be deaf and blind, but now she draws up at the side of my car and actually frickin taps on the window.  
Shit shit shit.  
I can't ignore her now, how rude would that be? 

I force myself to look up and slowly wind down the window, but I don't speak. Now I'm playing at being dumb.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you but, I recognise you from somewhere....your face is very familiar to me."

So, she recognised my face.  
My hair is now shoulder-length, and I have a fringe, but it's back to it's natural colour, although I do straighten it now as part of my daily ritual. But my face is the giveaway apparently.  
How the heck does she remember me after only briefly meeting me once, three years ago? Does she have a photographic memory?

"Have I seen you somewhere before?" She persists, her neat little features scrunching slightly as she scrutinises me closely.

I want to reply "Possibly on Crime Watch." But now is not the time to be facetious.  
I have two choices, either deny having ever met her, or own up.  
I decide on the latter option. I can't lie to her, she's too nice.

"Oh yes, I um.....I used to know your brother." I admit reluctantly. "I met you when he lived on Moorhouse Road." 

The recognition registers on her face, and I see her expression instantly change. Now she's smiling at me warmly. "That's right! It's Sam isn't it?"

I nod.  
It's a fair cop.

"What a coincidence bumping into you! Are you living back in London now?"

I shake my head. "No I'm just paying my dad a visit."

"How nice. Does he live locally?"

"Not quite. He's living in Camden now, Kentish Town to be exact."

"Oh, so what brings you to Ladbroke Grove?" She asks, still smiling as she awkwardly moves what she's holding from one arm to the other.  
I can see now that it looks like one of those cat scratching-post things. Rae has one for her cat.

"Oh, just....well, I'm a bit lost actually." I smile back, and try to look innocent, not like I'm here to fish for information regarding her brother. That would be beyond embarrassing. She might think I'm a stalker.  
And then there'd be a restraining order. Although Brett would still look amazing at 215 yards away. I could admire him from a distance.

"Oh dear. Well I'm rather hopeless when it comes to giving directions I'm afraid, but I know the way when I'm driving. I can lead the way if you like and you could follow?"

"Are you sure? That's really kind of you, but I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble especially if you're busy-"

"Not at all." She interjects, managing to wave her hand dismissively. "It's no bother. I only have to drop this thing off at Brett's, he's got a kitten and it's shredding his furniture, so Jarvis is letting him have this, his cat doesn't use it....but that can wait."

I bite my lip hard in order to try and prevent myself from asking the inevitable....but I just can't. I can always rely on my big fat mouth to override my thoughts and let me down.  
"How is Brett?"

Blandine pauses, and I see a flash of.....something....in her eyes, and in her face. She has quite an expressive face, just like her brother.  
"Oh he's....well, he's well enough I suppose. He does worry me though. He's become quite the hermit." She sighs, and now I understand what the look was in her eyes.  
Concern.  
Some things don't change.  
But then again, even Alex made a similar comment, and now I'm growing increasingly worried for the man I once loved.

I don't know whether Blandine senses my own concern now, or if she possesses the ability to read minds, but what she says next puts me completely on the spot...

"I know! Why don't we call there first? That would be a fabulous surprise for him!" She cries gleefully.

I'm sure it wouldn't.  
I can't imagine he'd want to see me again, not after all this time. Not after he....dumped me.  
In fact, he might not even remember me by now. There must've been dozens of other girls since me. Then with all the drink, and drugs that come as part of the Rock and roll lifestyle.....I'm sure I've faded into the mists of time in his memory.

"Oh, I don't know." I say cautiously. "It was such a long time ago, I haven't seen or spoken to him in ages."

"Which is precisely why you should pop in and say hello." Blandine insists, and I get the feeling that I no longer have a choice in the matter. Just like when she railroaded Brett and I into taking that fateful hospital trip together. She's not the kind of person who makes saying no to, an easy task.  
"He was awfully fond of you." She adds, and her words pierce my heart, like a well aimed arrow.

I sigh heavily, knowing that I'm beaten.  
"Alright then. I suppose so."

 

*************************

 

She's done it again.  
I'm not naive enough to believe that what Blandine is attempting to do isn't intentional. I know when I'm being set-up.

No sooner have we parked up outside Brett's Highgate home, when I find myself being calculatedly abandoned.

"I've just realised Sam, I need petrol." Blandine tells me convincingly. "I won't have enough to get you home, so I'll just nip and get some now. Alright?"

No it bloody isn't! Is what I want to say, but of course...I don't.

"You want me to wait here?" 

"Well, inside." She says this as if it's the most obvious and simple thing in the world, when it really isn't.

"What? You want me to go in by myself?" I squeak, practically feeling my blood pressure beginning to rise at the very idea of what she's suggesting.

"Of course. He won't bite you know, even if he has been nicknamed the vampire." She chuckles and is suddenly thrusting the damn cat scratching post into my unwilling arms.  
I should refuse, and thrust it back at her....but she's so commanding and yet nice, I find standing up to her impossible. After all, she is doing me a favour as well.

"What do you mean, the vampire?" 

"Oh it's the old folklore stories, you know about the Highate vampire? Caused a lot of trouble back in the day. Lots of hooligans were breaking into the cemetery with wooden stakes....it's silly really." 

"But what's that got to do with Brett?" I ask, when I should really be asking why she feels the urgency to go right now for petrol, when we could both go together after we leave here.

She's already heading back to her car, leaving me trailing behind her clutching the damned post.

"Nothing at all, other than his appearance and lifestyle. It's that coat he insists on wearing, and this gothic house he lives in....it's just a silly nickname. Although I don't suppose it helps with him being so pale, and mostly going out at night."

Okaaaay.  
Let's just forget that for a second. Even if Brett has taken to sleeping in a coffin, or hanging upside down from the rafters, that isn't the big issue here.  
I need to get back to the problem at hand.  
The problem being, she's throwing me in at the deep end. Leaving me on my own to face him.

"I can't just knock on his door like this!" I gesture to the post. "It's crazy. We haven't seen each other in years, what if-"

"Sam, it's only Brett." She soothes, as she climbs gracefully into her silver Fiat Cinquecento. "I'll be back before you know it, I'm only popping to the garage it isn't far. I won't be long."

She's only nipping and popping she says.  
That's great, just great.  
How long is that approximately, because I know from personal experience that just 'nipping' or 'popping' anywhere doesn't define any particular time restriction.  
Is a nip faster than a pop?  
Ugh.  
I don't want her nipping and popping anywhere, but she's already pulling away now, leaving me stranded haplessly, staring wide-eyed after her.

I inhale shakily and try to calm my nerves, bristling with a sudden burst of irritation.

She has done this deliberately, I just know it. Without any regard for how ridiculous I look, and feel, showing up on Brett's doorstep after all this time.....and with a cat scratching post!  
It's complete madness. He'll think I'm insane.  
I feel like I've slipped into the twilight zone, as if I'm having an outer body experience, as I move leadenly up the driveway towards the huge house.

Number 14 Shepherds Hill is a large Victorian pile that would be the perfect setting for a gothic horror movie. It's dark, imposing structure looks like the Addams family weekend place.  
Though it is undeniably impressive, and stunning.

Brett lives in a basement apartment, Blandine had briefly informed me, so I have to make my way around to the side of the building and down some precariously wide, crumbling steps.  
The house is apparently owned by the head honcho of the 'Mennonites' which is some religious organisation that I've never heard of, and not the Free Masons, as Alex had thought.

How did I get here? Is all I can think, as I set the cat post down and knock nervously on the door. This all feels like some crazy dream. Things have escalated so quickly I'm in a daze.

The smudged blur of a human form through the thick opaque glass appears, and I suck in a deep breath and try to quiet my thumping heart, feeling overwhelmingly nervous and awkward.  
What the hell am I going to say to him?  
I was in such a rush to get round to Jarvis' I never gave a thought to what I would say if I found myself in this sort of predicament. If I actually came face to face with Brett after all this time.

And I don't have any time to think now, as the door opens, and there he is....

Brett.

For a fleeting moment he looks puzzled, then he looks like he's been hit in the face....with a brick. There's that sort of stunned pause as he gets over the shock..  
He does remember. He knows me. And he doesn't look especially thrilled to see me, not that I was expecting he would be.  
He gives me a suspicious, wary look, as though he's expecting me to try and sell him double glazing.

Oh God.

I steal a glance up at him from behind my fringe, but I can't find my voice. Suddenly I feel choked up with strange emotions.  
Standing there in black jeans and a navy V-neck sweater, looking so cute and casually rumpled and....and...

"Are you just going to stand there and gawp?" He says sharply, and I blush deeply as I realise that's exactly what I have been doing.  
My mouth is practically hanging open, eyes wide like a fish out of water.

Three years might have been long enough to dim his beauty in my memory. His eyes had became a bog standard blue, his chiselled cheekbones faded, his hair had lost it's shiny lustre and his body wasn't quite so lean and lithe.  
I've tried hard not to pay too much attention to him on the tele, and in the magazines....seeing him evolving. His image changing.  
But now he's here before me in strikingly gorgeous high definition, and the reality makes my breathing stop.

He's still so very beautiful, if not more so.  
The bastard. 

"H-hello." I stammer shyly, wondering if he'll invite me in, but instead he folds his arms, right hip tilted slightly as he rests all of his weight on one long leg.  
"I've....I've...." Being able to form whole sentences would be great right about now. "....I've brought you this." I reach down and heave up the post, and gesture encouragingly at it with my free hand, but Brett remains motionless and doesn't take it from me.  
"Well, your sister brought it for you. I ran into her, it's a long story. She's just gone to the garage." 

"Oh I might've known this would have something to do with her." He snarls, voice like barbed wire rather than his soft, Southern velvety twang. "She always has to bloody interfere!"

I raise timid eyes to his face, he's still so cold and unresponsive, as if he were carved from granite.  
And I'm so completely unprepared for this. I didn't come equipped with a hammer and chisel. How am I going to chip away this solid wall he's built around himself?

"I appreciate the gesture." He adds brusquely. "But it was wrong of Blandine to send you on her errands....now, is that all you wanted to say?"

I stare at him askance. No, there's plenty more I would like to say, but the words seem to get stuck in my throat.  
When I don't respond, he reaches out and finally takes the cat scratching post, relieving me so I can wrap my arms around him unhindered.  
I feel emotions give way inside me like a landslide.  
"It's good to see you, Brett!"

I've no idea what came over me, but it was like a knee-jerk reaction that I couldn't resist.  
Even though he's clutching that bloody post awkwardly in one hand, which is a bit of an obstruction to say the least, but I don't care.  
And he doesn't protest.  
Instead he slips his free arm around me gingerly, reluctantly returning my hug and buries his face in my hair, so that his next words come out muffled.  
"Um, yeah. It's...it's good to see you too."

He still smells absolutely divine, and I breath in lungfuls of his inimitable scent. I feel myself melting into him, as if our bodies are somehow fusing together. He feels so 'right'..  
Right and utterly perfect.  
I feel my heart racing and blood rushing to my face, and I'm only glad that Blandine isn't actually here to see it.  
I thought my tell-tale blushes were a thing of the past, something I'd grown out of, yet I seem to be blushing all over the place today.

I lift up my head and feel my stomach lurch as my gaze lands on his freakishly perfect pout.  
I shouldn't be wondering what it would be like to kiss him again, not after the way he just forgot all about me. Not after all this time.  
Then I notice his eyes, like the sea in winter, they've turned stormy and cold. Those eyes were once the windows to his soul, but now the shutters are closed. That's probably for the best. 

I immediately tense up, and he hastily pulls free of the hug.  
"I s'pose you'd better come in then." He says before retreating inside.

I follow him in, somewhat apprehensively, and I'm immediately struck by how dark his basement flat is.  
The thick dark curtains are closed, blocking out any trace of sunlight.  
I see now that his nickname of 'the vampire' is well deserved.  
Brett has a penchant for wearing mostly all black these days, I've noticed that much. And I've seen the full-length black Crombie coat that his sister spoke of. He wore it in a recent music video for a song entitled 'The Wild Ones' which was very pretty, and moody and he looked all dark and brooding, swishing around Dartmoor in his long coat.

His flat is not dirty by any means, but more of a shambolic, yet cosy organised-mess.  
As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I take in the sparse yet opulent decor and furnishings, which appear to be an eclectic mixture of old and new. Ranging from the most elegant antiques to modern tat. There's an elaborately carved Queen Anne cabinet, which has a modern (and no doubt very pricey) Bang & Olufsen stereo system - complete with record player - sat atop of it, making it look painfully out of place.

A dark leather Chesterfield sofa and matching wing-backed chair add a touch of class, and amongst the various posters of David Bowie and the Sex Pistols which hang on the walls, are some beautiful paintings depicting landscapes and forests.  
In the corner there's a bookshelf which looks suspiciously like one of those flat-pack DIY affairs you get from Ikea, which always have a Scandinavian name in the catalogue so you've no idea how to pronounce it when you come to purchase one.  
It's overstuffed with books, practically groaning under the weight of them in fact.  
Scattered around the room, there's some subdued lighting provided by tea lights ensconced in cheap looking, imitation gothic-style candelabras. Clearly Brett's preference to actual sunlight.

He places the cat scratching-post in a corner, and crouches on the floor, doing the "ch ch ch-ing" thing that must be the universally used noise we all make, when trying to entice a cat to us.

I watch him closely, admiring his relatively new hairstyle.  
It's shorter now at the back and sides, but longer on top and his fringe still reaches below his nose, but it's swept to one side across his face. All the better to display those chiseled cheekbones, which rival the Himalayans, and those oceany-blue eyes that are so striking up close that it still takes my breath away. So it would probably be a good idea to stop staring into them, every time he glances up at me.

This all feels decidedly awkward, but luckily Brett's little black kitten saves the day by putting in an appearance, seemingly having decided to respond to his masters' call. 

"Oh my gosh, he's so cute!" I gush, bending down to stroke the adorable ball of black fluff, with green eyes that shine like two bright buttons. "What's his name?"

"I haven't named him yet." Brett admits, rising to tower above me. "I only picked him up two days ago from a pet shop in Islington."

"You've had him two days and still haven't named him!" I say incredulously. "It can't be that difficult to decide on a name, surely?" 

"Well I want something original and a bit different.....not like Sooty or Lucky....I quite like Salem-"

"He's so fluffy!" I interject needlessly, as I tickle the kitten under it's tiny chin.

"I am not calling him fluffy!" 

"I'm not saying you should! It's far too glib....how about...um....Fluffington?" I suggest helpfully.

He purses his lips thoughtfully, which does wonderful things to his mouth.  
"Fluffington?!"

"Yeah, because he's fluffy and he came from Islington, so....Fluff-ington." I explain, chancing a wary smile now at Brett. "Yes. You should call him Fluffington. It suits him."

Brett huffs slightly and rolls his eyes. "Well thank you so much for letting me choose a name for my cat." He retorts dryly.

I let out a nervous giggle, and hope that his sarcasm is an indication of him warming to me now.  
Yes we shared the hug at the door, but there's a rather icy atmosphere, and he's being undeniably stand-offish with me.  
Still, I ought to cut him some slack. I'm probably about as welcome as a strip-o-gram in a nunnery.  
And if the drumming of his fingers on the cabinet are anything to go by, he's impatiently waiting for me to start speaking.

Where do I start though? And what the hell do I say?

"So, how are you?" Is what comes out. How lame, but I'm keeping things light....for now at least. "I loved the latest album by the way. Amazing....like, truly amazing and I'm not just saying that, because I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. Do you believe me?"

Bloody hell, I'm already rambling. I really am no sodding good at this kind of thing. I can't string a sentence together articulately like Brett can. I never could.  
I can't even make it out of the front door without laddering my tights, or throw a frozen lasagne in the oven without burning the house down.  
I'm just no good at 'grown-up' stuff, and I've always felt way out of my depth with Brett, more so now than ever. Even though I shouldn't.  
Not now. Not anymore.

"Yeah I believe you....thanks." He dips his head to hide a bashful smile.  
He's put on a bit of weight I notice, and it suits him. His face is ever so slightly fuller now, which makes the angles of his face less severe, and his smile even more adorable.

"Are you getting out much?" I blurt, cutting right to the chase.  
There may not have been any mention of his blatant abandonment of me, or what nearly happened that night in Manchester, when we were in that tiny room, with the even tinier bed.....oh stop it, no I can't think about that right now, the fact of the matter is whether I like it or not I still care about this man and I'm concerned for his state of mind.

He's been withdrawn, and I recall Damon once commenting that Brett suffered with low moods.  
Then there's his bands' latest creation.  
Dog Man Star.  
It is a masterpiece, no doubt about it, but most of the songs have a sombre, heartfelt tone to them.  
If Brett is suffering with some form of depression, I want to be there for him.

"Yeah I go out." He looks at me inquisitively, so I feel compelled to explain.

"I was just wondering that's all. I spoke to Alex, he mentioned that he hadn't seen you out and about much."

Shrugging his shoulders haughtily, he turns his attention elsewhere. Back to the kitten - Fluffington - who is rolling around on the rug playfully and contentedly.  
"The summer fair's on at Hampstead Heath.....I might take a wander over there later." He comments obscurely, and then he looks me straight in the eye.

Oh.  
Is he hinting? Or waiting for me to ask if I can tag along? Or what? I've no idea.

"Sounds like fun." I respond breezily. Hopefully. "You're never too old for the fair."

Oops, I hope he doesn't take that the wrong way and think I'm implying that he's old. He's only 26, and if I'm not mistaken....he turns 27 next month.

"Well it might be a bit of a laugh if nothing else." He swipes his fringe out of his eyes, and I can safely say no woman who ever saw him do that on television ever quite got over it. 

"You should go." I say encouragingly.  
I really don't want him cutting himself off from the world.  
He may go too far, and start hoarding....collecting old newspapers, dead pigeons, and carrier bags full of old men's shoes and other peoples junk.  
Perhaps one day, when they realise he's not been seen for months they'll have to break down the door and find him buried under an avalanche of ancient copies of the NME, and empty cigarette packets.

"Yeah, well Anick has been hassling me to take her. And some of the lads might be up for it as well, so....." His words trail off, but he holds my gaze, which makes my pulse misbehave.

But hold on.....  
Anick.  
Who the fuck is Anick?!

"Oh right. Cool." I have this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don't even need to ask, I just know. 

He has a girlfriend. Anick is the girlfriend. 

I shouldn't be surprised. Why on earth would he be single? I've suspected he must have someone else by now, so I was more than prepared for this. Besides it has absolutely nothing to do with me, I reason with myself, yet I can feel bile rising unpleasantly at the back of my throat as I mull over it in my mind.

I'm suddenly overcome with the need to get out of here, and I find myself silently praying for Blandine to hurry up.

I hastily steer the conversation towards Suede's new guitarist, some young dude called Rcinard who has replaced former guitarist Bernard, after some rather major disagreements and "artistic differences"

Brett seems to relax a little as he talks about the details, and I listen for the next five minutes or so, riveted as usual.  
God I've missed him. I've missed just being in his company, conversing with him, and he's had so much going on.  
I try to quell the pang of sadness, for not having been there along the way.  
But then again, he didn't want me. And now he's got this Anick, whoever she is.  
I picture some athletic blonde Swedish sort, all tanned and glowing like a Ready Brek advert.  
Yet the whole time he's talking there's this deep staring going on, his eyes practically undressing me where I stand, making me feel hot, shivery and dizzy all at once. 

I don't want him to have this effect on me.  
It's been three years. Three bloody years, but the minute he's in my vicinity again he has me feeling fruitier than a packet of Opal Fruits.

Damn him.

 

When Blandine arrives, she doesn't actually come in, and I'm both relieved and confusingly disappointed at the same time.

"We shan't stay Brett, Sam needs to get to her father's and it's getting late." She informs him, as I make my way passed him out of the door, holding my breath. Nerves tingling.

Brett makes understanding noises, mumbles something about telling Jarvis thank you for the cat post, and bids us a casual farewell.

I'm just at the top step, lagging behind Blandine who is already half way down the drive, when suddenly Brett's behind me. Completely unexpectedly, as he clears the steps with just two giant strides of his crazily long legs, and I hear his lovely voice close to my ear.  
"Maybe see ya later then, yeah?"

This is all a bit like history repeating itself, as I'm almost certain those were the exact same words he used that very first night I met him in the pub.

And does that mean he actually wants to see me later?  
I'm not sure how I feel about this. I don't know what I feel anymore.  
What about this Anick bird?  
Oh bloody hell.....

"Yeah, maybe." I reply quietly, still very much undecided, and I deliberately avoid looking at him or lingering. I can't afford to.

My head and my heart are now at war over this, and I'm convinced their bickering will drive me around the bend.

Or maybe, drive me to do something very silly....


	18. Fairground Attraction

As I walk towards the fairground site up on Hampstead Heath, the sounds and smells that fill the warm night air add to the atmosphere, and my ever-growing feeling of anxious excitement.

I love a fairground anyway, I'll always be a big kid at heart and you can't beat that thrill of adrenaline pumping through your veins as you ride some bone-rattling contraption that spins you silly and makes your stomach lurch in a not entirely unpleasant way.  
The thought that some thumbless-carnie has thrown the thing up less than a few hours beforehand is enough to fill most people with dread, but that's never been an issue for me. It's almost like it adds a sense of danger.  
Perhaps I'm not right in the head.  
I mustn't be to come here in the first place, especially after Brett's treatment of me, and yet here I am.....trudging my way over the squidgy, well-trodden patch of land that's filled with people, kids, teenagers...all of whom are here to enjoy their Friday night at the fair.

I'd discussed my predicament at-length with Jane, who bizarrely is not only quite pleased that I've reacquainted myself with Brett (my mother's reaction would be the complete opposite, and she'd more than likely nail my feet to the floor rather than allow me to go anywhere near him again) but Jane seems to think that this might be the only chance I get to find closure.

"It's your fate." She whispered excitedly to me, as we sat in the kitchen drinking her ghastly peppermint and chamomile tea.  
"This was destined to happen, and you must go Sam, you simply must. Your horoscope for today says to take a chance! Now you'll have he opportunity to get the answers you so rightly deserve."

"But what's the point of digging up the past? It really doesn't matter anymore. It was no great romance, our 'relationship'..." I made air-quotes with my fingers. "....it barely lasted five minutes."

"But it does matter, and it will always matter if you don't get an explanation from him. Trust me dear, I know." 

 

And so....here I am.  
If it all goes horribly wrong, I'll just blame Jane.  
Or Russell Grant.

Once I reach the top of the hill the fair becomes visible, and I start to wonder how on earth I'm going to locate Brett amongst all these people. Okay, so he does stand out in a crowd, which is definitely a blessing on this occasion because the place is teeming.

I leave the darkness of the lower part of the Heath behind, as the flashing lights of the rides illuminate the night, flooding the area with vivid colour. There's an imposing, impossibly high big wheel, that's lit up like a circle of diamonds against the backdrop of the sky, and various dance and techno anthems boom from the giant speakers.  
There's a kind of warm, and gloriously unique smell to funfairs. The smell of fried onions, burgers, hot dogs, freshly made donuts and candy floss all compete with each other, making my mouth water.

I walk passed several food stands and kiosks, winding my way through the gaggles of people who are either mulling about, or dashing around from ride to ride.  
My head is on a swivel, my eyes peeled, searching for Brett's familiar visage amongst this sea of face-less strangers.

Amidst the throngs of guys in sports-brand clothing, and women in bright neon green or orange tops (that's one fashionable trend I certainly have no intention of following) my attention is suddenly drawn to a group of, for want of a better phrase, men in black.  
There's a ginger bloke with spiky hair, a pleasant, smiling face and a hoop in his left earlobe. He's holding a camcorder and talking animatedly, whirling it around, filming his surroundings, before turning it back on his companions.  
He looks vaguely familiar, so I slowly edge my way over.

As I get closer I notice there's a thin, young looking girl with them. She's smoking a cigarette and taking regular swigs from a bottle of beer between laughing.  
There's two other men, neither of which I recognise, but there's a tall guy standing next to the girl, and as he turns I immediately register Brett's handsome face and toothy-grin.

Bingo!

I'm so relieved to have found him, and my excitement cranks up a gear as I nervously make my way over.  
I suddenly feel like the nerdy kid that's about to try and integrate with the coolest gang in school.  
It's warm but the guys are all wearing leather jackets, apart from Brett who's wearing his newly favoured , ankle-length Crombie coat. It looks so thick and heavy, I can't help but wonder how he isn't sweating his balls off in that thing!  
But he does look fantastic.  
Alas, perhaps being uncomfortably hot and ball-less is the price he's willing to pay in order to look über chic, cool, and mysterious.

Then my eyes involuntarily return again to the woman.  
Well, girl.  
She's waif-looking and petite, with dyed blonde hair that reaches all the way down to her waist. It's poker-straight, and I know her colour has come out of a bottle because her visibly dark roots are unforgivingly obvious.

So, Brett clearly has a thing for tiny girl-type women these days, I think bitterly. Perhaps it makes him feel manly.  
Still, I am in no position to judge, not after Jason the hairy man-mountain. He made me feel more feminine.

A sudden onset of irrational jitters makes me want to turn around and leg it back the way I came.  
There's a distinctive aching sensation deep in the cavity of my chest beneath my breastbone, which I find difficult to ignore.  
This is bad.  
It shouldn't hurt, but it does. I thought I could handle it, the sight of Brett with another woman, but maybe I can't. 

As I slow to a halt and stand rooted to the spot, dithering like an idiot, the option to turn and flee is suddenly taken away from me as Brett turns my way, and recognises me instantly.

"Sammy!" He calls out, and breaks away from his friends. "What'cha." 

Hearing his old, friendly greeting again seems to calm my nerves and I feel my anxieties melt away as though I were 17 again.  
No wink though, but hey. No matter.

"You made it! That's....that's....great." He completes his sentence eventually and his broad smile actually lights up his face, eyes creasing, dimple flashing.  
It's a million miles away from the stoic, cold, detached  expression he wore a few hours ago when I was in his home.

"Hm. Yeah, I love fairs." I try to sound casual and glance around, not wanting him to think that he's the main attraction that brought me here.

He studies me now with a curious half-smile and nods. "Well I'm glad you came."

"Are you?" I ask without thinking. "Are you really?"

His smile dissolves, probably due to my slightly clipped tone.  
"Yes of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

I cast my eyes down now and scowl furiously at my Chelsea-booted feet. "Well why would you be?" I bounce the question right back at him.  
I don't know how to put it into words, and this is hardly the time or place for a heart-to-heart conversation.  
"Look, never mind Brett. It doesn't matter."

He's about to say something further, when all at once a piercing female voice rings out, calling Brett's name.  
We both turn to see the girlfriend sidling over, closely followed by the rest of the group.

"Aren't you going to introduce us then?" She fires at him, whilst looking directly at me.

Brett pauses briefly, seemingly regaining his composure before he clears his throat and makes the somewhat hasty introductions.

The woman is Anick - as if I needed telling - and the spiky redhead is Simon, Suede's drummer. This explains why he seemed remotely familiar to me. One of the other guys is Paul, Simon's partner, and lastly Brett introduces me to Neil, an extremely pale, quiet, and rarher good-looking man, who is also Simon's cousin.

Both Paul and Simon greet me warmly, and the latter even says "it's good to meet you at long last." which arouses more than just a smidgen of curiosity in me.  
His comment, along with the knowing look the couple feelingly share, has me intrigued, as well as putting me at ease.  
It's hard to explain, but it's as if I'm known to them, without having ever met them, and it elevates my confidence.  
Upgrading me from outsider to acquaintance of the Suede 'family' and this acceptance helps me feel more at ease with Neil's much more reserved response to my presence.  
He's quite aloof, but that's nothing compared to Anick's downright hostile reaction.  
She shoots me a disdainful look and doesn't even bother to return my greeting.

Oh, so it's going to be like that is it? The defensive part of me is saying, preparing for possible battle if necessary.  
Well fine. Game on!  
She'd better go and get her armour.  
I don't mean battle in the physical sense of course, this is all psychological. Her flippant manner, the way in which she rudely dismisses me makes me instantly dislike her, and my bitch-radar is going into overdrive.

Whether she sees me as a threat or not I don't know, but she really shouldn't.  
There's nothing between Brett and I anymore, and I was really going to try and make the effort to be friendly in order to prove that there's no ill feelings.  
Heck, I'd have even been willing to shake her hand and congratulate her if she'd been nice, after all whatever's gone on in the past between us isn't her fault, so why would I take it out on her? I'm not churlish by nature.

But she makes it blatantly clear that she's unable to muster even an ounce of civility, so I duly register how things are going to be...  
Awkward.  
Very awkward.

 

As the night progresses and we wander from ride to ride, our party is in high spirits.  
Possibly quite literally, as they've all had a few drinks, and Brett has been on the wine apparently before coming out. Simon informs me that sometimes he drinks it as if it were Ribena.  
There's definitely some drug-taking going on too, and whilst Brett freely admits with disarming honesty that he does indulge in dropping the odd E when he's partying, and has taken copious amounts of LSD in the past because he wanted to 'experiment' with hallucinogenic narcotics in order to assist in the artistic process of writing Suede's latest album, he isn't, he insists, on anything tonight.

"I'm just high on life right now." He smirks, and I can't quite decide whether he's being sarcastic or not.

Anick on the other hand, totes on a spliff in-between taking goes on the dodgems, waltzers and gut-churning Twister.  
Neil mellows after sharing the joint with her, and now he's much more relaxed, talkative and friendly. He tells me there's a possibility of him joining the band as a keyboardist, and before long we're chatting away and laughing comfortably about everything and nothing.  
Simon is incredibly witty, and has me in stitches of laughter, which is also a good distraction, being as Anick commands Brett's attention for the duration of the evening.

Simon continues to film the shenanigans, whenever we take a break to have a drink and smoke (regular cigarettes, mostly)  
Brett remarks that he's a 'bloody nuisance' with the camcorder, though he says this good naturedly.  
He has a fair point actually, because it is impractical to take the thing on certain rides. Even when Simon puts it away in it's bag, he has to hold onto it for dear life for fear of breaking or losing it.

"But it's well worth it.....look at this, come on...look at Neil's face!" He's rewound a small section of the tape so he can watch the footage he took a short while ago of Paul, Neil and Anick riding the stand-up ride, worryingly named the 'Wall of Death'  
Himself, Brett, and I, had wisely chosen to sit that one out, and judging by the queasy faces Neil and Paul were pulling after disembarking, whilst simultaneously struggling to walk without falling over, we made the right call.

As I'm standing closest to Simon, he offers the camera to me first, holding it as I squint to watch the playback on the tiny screen.  
I chuckle along with him, that is until I notice myself on the film, smiling as I try to catch a glimpse of Neil and Paul as they whizz by at great speed.  
And then I notice something else...Brett hovering nearby, and he's looking directly at me. Watching me the whole time. Watching me as I watch Neil, and I'm blissfully unaware.

If the truth be told, I was intentionally paying no attention to him. Just for the sake of my own sanity. He's had Anick by his side all night, as if they're attached at the hip and up until her going on this ride I was starting to fear that he might need a surgical procedure to separate himself from her.

My hands tremble involuntarily as I step away from the camera, having seen enough, allowing Neil himself to take a look and protest strongly that he wasn't the only one 'shitting himself' during the ride.

The noise fades into the background as I struggle to process my thoughts on what I've just seen.  
I'm vaguely aware of the deafening beat of N-Trance's 'Set You Free' blaring from a nearby speaker, and of Paul standing beside me expertly rolling a cigarette, but I can't focus on anything other than the video, and my mind is racing.  
Why was Brett watching me so closely? 

"Would you like some of this Sam?" Paul asks suddenly, shattering my thoughts.

At first I presume the roll-up to contain nothing more than weed, and as I haven't partaken in any drinking or recreational drugs, I boldly make the decision to throw caution to the wind.  
Maybe it'll chill me out, I feel I could use something to help quash this jittery sensation I have in my stomach, that I know hasn't been induced by any of the rides I've been on.

"Yeah, okay. Why not? Thanks Paul." I take the lit cigarette from him. "What is it? Skunk?" 

He shakes his head. "No, just a bit of whizz."

Hold on. What?

"Whizz?" I wasn't aware you could smoke whizz. But then again, what do I know? Not a lot about drugs, clearly.   
I've only ever smoked a bit of weed with fellow students, and that sometimes knocked me sick.

"Yeah, or Speed....whatever you want to call it." He says casually.

Alrighty then.

So, do I hand it right back and say thanks but no thanks like a sensible girl, or do I live dangerously for a change?  
Hm.  
It could be dodgy stuff, someone might've cut it with other kinds of drugs that might be really dangerous....or Bold 2-in-1 for all I know.  
I've heard speed is taken to make people feel energised and alert though, and I am starting to lag a bit, especially after my long drive down from Manchester.  
So I decide to take the plunge.  
What's the worst that could happen? I'll be awake, bouncing off the walls for the next 12 hours or so. Or I could die. Or start blowing soap bubbles.

What the hell.

I take a few careful drags, then hand it back to him.  
As I turn my attention back to the others I notice now that Anick has wandered off, and is stood talking to a pretty Asian girl.  
I watch their body language with interest, as they stand at very close quarters, whispering into each other's ears before walking away together.....hand in hand!

I blink. Surely I'm hallucinating.  
This happens at times, I've also heard the stories about people seeing things, imaging things after taking amphetamines.

My first thought though is good riddance, because apart from being the most breathtakingly boring individual I've ever had to listen to in all my life, as she droned on about herself endlessly, she also has a voice that could shatter glass.  
Her very presence had me on edge, as she shot me occasional dirty looks, whilst draping herself all over Brett as if he were a clothes stand.

But seriously, what was that all about? Who was that girl, and why have they gone off together holding hands?

I don't have time to puzzle it out or consider it further, as the next thing I know Simon is encouraging us to take another spin (no pun intended) on the Waltzers.

This time however, as I climb aboard the cart, I'm pleasantly surprised when Brett and not Neil clambers aboard to be my riding companion. 

"Where's Neil?" I ask, not wanting to betray my elation, and he shrugs his shoulders noncommittally.

"I dunno. I think he's gone looking for the toilets." 

"I hope he isn't being sick. Maybe the Wall of Death was a bit too much for him." 

"He's a big boy, he can take care of himself." He says stonily.

I frown. "I'm sure he can, but-"

"Would you rather wait and ride with him?"

"What? No!" I say, a little too hastily.

There's no chance for any further conversation though, as the ride suddenly lurches into motion and now it's the sound of Whiffield singing 'Sexy Eyes' that fills my ears, adding to the sensory assault as the waltzer cart whirls around on the track.  
But still, I find myself thinking how apt the song is, as I try to steal a look at Brett as we spin around. 

The flashing laser lights make it almost impossible to focus, but I manage to see him well enough.  
I can hardly miss him when he takes up most of the cart, I am more aware than I want to be of his long legs stretched out inches from mine. The heat of our thighs pressing together as gravity forces us closer.  
I swallow hard, feeling deeply uncomfortable. This is partly due to him being so overwhelming, but there's something else happening now. I feel impulsively reckless and daring.  
Which isn't good.

Brett isn't mine.  
I'm skating on thin ice here. Very thin ice.

Casting off all my inhibitions, I join in with the delighted screams and laughter. Brett's laughing too.  
This is one of those utterly perfect, few and far between moments in life that you have to draw into your lungs and hold there. Absorbing every drop of it because this is what life is all about.  
If you expect eternal and everlasting happiness then you're only setting yourself up for disappointment in the not-so-distant future.

So instead of fretting when his fingers brush against mine as we hold onto the safety bar, and the fleeting touch skitters along my skin, I do not overanalyse it.  
Thinking and me are two different countries. Countries at war.

For reasons I can't fathom, by the time the ride is over all I can think about is the all-consuming desire I have to kiss Brett again.  
To run my tongue against his. To taste the wetness of his mouth.  
To gently bite his soft, full lips...

Sheesh.  
It would appear that I still have the hots pretty bad for this man, and instead of feeling bitter about the past, I allow my imagination to run wild.  
I'm assaulted by an image in my mind of me unzipping his jeans and frantically wrapping my legs around him as I groan with pleasure.  
It's one of those horrendous, dirty dreams about someone totally inappropriate, except I'm awake. I feel my crotch flood with warmth. I think I might faint. 

"We haven't been on the big wheel yet." Paul points out as our little group reforms, and I'm pulled from my lust-fuelled reverie.

No one objects to the suggestion, and neither do they make any excuses about being afraid of heights or having vertigo.  
Perhaps if I wasn't feeling quite so stoked then I'd be the one making excuses, because the wheel is of humongous proportions....to the point where I'm struggling to figure out how on earth something of this size could be transported on the back of a lorry.

We join the queue for the gigantor-wheel, and when the next available carriage comes around, Brett hangs back instead of boarding. Paul and Simon having already gone up. 

"I'm just finishing my cig." He informs Neil quite innocently. "You go ahead."

Neil turns to me expectantly and I'm about to take my place next to him when Brett speaks again.  
"Didn't you want next-on, Sammy?"

I frown. Why would I want next-on? I have cigarettes of my own, and he knows this. I open my mouth to speak but as his eyes meet mine, his sleepy gaze makes me feel light-headed and prickly inside.  
There's something about the way he's behaving that's suggestive, and it makes me hot all over. I feel wired, so hot that I couldn't trust myself to speak even if we were having an actual conversation. It's electric. The way he's looking at me makes me think that I've forgotten to put my clothes on. His wolffish grin leaves me tongue-tied and wrestling with disturbingly rude, primal thoughts.

"She can have a smoke when we get off." Neil responds somewhat gruffly.

Silence.

The situation feels a little strained and tense as they eye each other over the barrier.  
Am I imagining it or are they having some kind of Mexican stand-off?  
The atmosphere could be cut with a knife, and I can't wait to see what happens next.  
But we can't wait like this all night.  
I feel very flattered that I have two good looking musicians fighting for the right to ride a Ferris wheel with me, but I can't let this go on.

"Why don't you boys go up together?" I suggest, thinking I'm being helpful. "I'll take the next one with.....whoever." I turn around to the random stranger waiting behind me, and try to strike up a conversation with him. Wanting to reassure him that we are now best mates for life.

Wow. This speed really is making the old confidence surge. A more unsure me would never carry on like this. It must have the ability to turn even the most quietest of introverts into an out-going, gyrating John Travolta.

Just as the man operating the ride is about to intervene and forcibly make one of us enter the carriage, even if it means resorting to threats of violence, Neil gives up. Either realising it's not worth the aggro, or that he's been outranked by the lead singer, who does after all, know me better than he does.

"I feel really bad for him now." I tell Brett, as the safety rail is clunked shut across us.

"Don't. He has a girlfriend who lives over Hammersmith way." 

"What's that got to do with anything?" 

He rolls his eyes at me. "He clearly had designs on you."

"Pfft." I scoff, and giggle girlishly to myself. Which must be rather annoying.

"What?"

"Nothing. Take no notice....ooh look Brett, it's so pretty!"  
Brett obligingly takes in the amazing view of London at night. It looks like a giant jewellery box, with its million twinkling yellow streetlights.  
"Sorry, what were you saying about girlfriends? Oh, speaking of which, where's your girlfriend?" I ask abruptly.

He fidgets slightly on the hard plastic seat, which makes the carriage rock back and forth precariously. "I dunno. She's gone on somewhere. Probably to a club." 

"Who was that girl she was with?"

He sighs, staring blankly into the middle-distance. "That...that was her girlfriend." 

Whoa!!  
I did not expect that, and I gasp loudly at this dramatic revelation. 

"She has a girlfriend?" I cry, aghast. "But you're her boyfriend!"

"Yeah thanks Sammy, I'm well aware of that."

"So you're what? In an open relationship? Is that the understanding you have, that you'll both see other people?"

He shakes his head stiffly. "Not really. It's more a case of me just having to accept that she's also in love with someone else."

"But...but...why?"  
Words are failing me. My brain at present is not trustworthy when I try to think, my coherent thoughts dance away out of reach.  
It isn't my place to judge anyone, or question their sexuality, but I'm having a really difficult time trying to wrap my head around all of this.

"Why what?" He attempts to sound more blasé now, trying to give the impression that this bizarre set-up doesn't bother him all that much.  
But how can it not?

"Why would you put up with that? For Gods' sake Brett! What is it with you and these weird love triangles? You're worth more than that! All I can say is, you must love her....a lot."

He looks at me now but remains eerily silent, so I carry on with my rambling rant.

"I don't get her either. I mean, if she's bisexual then that's her business. I've got nothing against that, but she shouldn't be openly, brazenly having an affair with another woman. That's so disrespectful of your feelings. Doesn't she care? Does she not give a damn about how you feel? She's mad. She must be. Absolutely off her rocker!"

I'm the one who is doing a fine impersonation of someone who is off their rocker, as I move to the edge of the seat, shifting my feet around, not giving a toss about the way my movements are jolting the carriage back and forth. I'm filed with agitation, and the need to move around, but obviously I'm restricted.  
I'm stuck at the top of a bloody Ferris wheel.

"Sammy, calm down." Brett's perceptibly surprised by my little outburst, and he places a reassuring hand on my arm. Trying to quiet me. "There's no need to get all worked up over it."

"There's every need." I throw my hands up wildly, causing his to slip away. "Why aren't you enough for her? You should be plenty. Why would she want somebody else? I wouldn't want anyone else, I'd want only you....you and your....your.....sexy eyes!"

Shit, I'm actually quoting Whigfield now.  
And it gets worse, much much worse....it would appear I'm on a roll.

"Obviously your eyes aren't the only thing about you that's sexy. You have sexy hair, a sexy smile....well, sexy everything really!" 

I notice he's actually staring at me slack-jawed now, no doubt contemplating whether or not a fall from this height would be enough to kill him, and if it's worth him risking the jump. 

"And don't give me that look, mister Anderson!" I say accusingly, waggling my finger at him. "As if you don't know that you're sexy. As if you don't know that I think you're sexy. I'm well aware of your sexiness....it's all I think about. You and your bloody sexy arse. Not that I've actually ever seen your arse properly, but still....I know it's sexy and I think about it. I think about all of it. All of you. Yes, all of you, even your willy!"

Poor Brett makes a sudden sort of choked noise, as if he's just swallowed his own tonsils. I wish I could swallow mine and that they would choke me, and then I'd just shut up.  
I'm like a woman possessed, and the worst part is I can actually see myself doing these terrible things. I can hear myself speaking these cringe-worthy words, but I'm helpless to stop it, and I just don't give a damn for the consequences.

"And I think about your mouth!" I tap my index finger against my knee, as if his mouth is something that bothers me very much. "I think about it a lot...and your lips....and your tongue."

Blood rushes to my head as the words leave my lips. I feel strangely excited and unburdened rather than embarrassed, but I'm also feeling overloaded, overstimulated, and I want to shut down.

After remaining silent for what seems like several million years, Brett clears his throat, and dares to speak. He must be seriously regretting his decision to take this ride with me.  
"Sammy, are you alright?" Is what he says, and I can't suppress a sudden burst of laughter.

Of course I'm alright, Brett. You silly boy.  
....I'm here with you.  
I'll always be alright when I'm with you.

"Me?" I say this as if I'm not the only person he could be talking to. "I'm absolutely fine, no need to worry about me, Wolfie. So what if I still fancy you? There's no need to panic just because I still fancy you. I do, and that's all there is to it. And do I want to see you naked? Yes I do. But, that's all by-the-by. You're perfectly safe from me, you have a new girlfriend.....even though she has one too!" 

I slap my hands down on the rail, and my laughter increases.  
I laugh and let my head fall into my chest. My head feels small, far too small to accommodate all these thoughts.  
I've fancied him forever. Ever since first witnessing his arse-smacking antics with the microphone.  
And I'm never going to stop.

He moves his body so it's inclined towards me, not an easy feat given his long legs and the cramped size of the carriage.  
"Have you....have you taken something? Please tell me you haven't. What if you make yourself ill?"

I tilt my head back and gaze up at him. He's looking at me down his imperial nose, and even in the dim light I can see the flush still dotting his cheekbones.  
"My diabetes is perfectly under control these days. I've eaten, I've taken my insulin, and I haven't been drinking. A bit of speed won't do me any harm-"

"Speed!" He closes his eyes and covers his face with the palm of his left hand. "Sammy, for fucks sake when did you take that? Who gave it to you?"

"Look, I am not your responsibility." I poke him gently in the chest as if to emphasise my point.

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean I don't still care."

His words circle around my racing brain for a while before they descend to my heart, where they try to poke and prod at a place where I never allow anything to go.  
My head is whirling violently as if it's on a spin cycle, as I manoeuvre myself so I'm facing him.  
His gentle, seductive whisper forces me to lean towards him so I can make out his next words...

"I've never stopped caring about you."

I'm hardly sure I can keep my balance, I feel so dizzy, hot and confused right now. I'm convinced I might just topple right out of my seat, so I steady myself by placing my hands against his chest, and he doesn't budge an inch. He feels so solid, this torso-like rock. Warm rock.  
Then I nearly leap straight up from the seat because his long fingers go straight into my hair, before gently gliding down to cup my face.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to stop caring. " He says, staring deep into my eyes.  

He feels so excessively masculine in this moment. The size of his hands, they're so strong yet tender. I have flashbacks, remembering the way his powerful grasp feels. 

I strain upwards to bring my face closer to his, heart careening in my chest, and now we seem to be....no.  
We can't possibly be......Can we?

Kissing.

Kissing like it's the end of the world. Kissing like two people who haven't kissed anyone in years.  
The feel of his mouth on mine is shockingly new, yet comfortingly familiar.  
The sweet taste of his beery-breath, all hot and racing inside my mouth, is like nothing on earth.  
My body curves obediently into his, and I want to stay here forever, doing this. If only I could, the world would be a simple place full of warm friendship and deep affection, and unspoken love.  
Love, lots of feelings of love and togetherness all wrapped up in a blissful, drug infused, lagery-bubble. 

But the next thing I know, we're back on the ground....quite literally, as our carriage stops, and we are forced apart.

I can't rely on my legs, they seem to have turned to jelly.  
Luckily for me, Brett is nothing if not a gentleman, so he helps me alight the ride by offering me his arm, which he doesn't withdraw, so we end up linking each other.

 

Our arms are still interlinked as we make our way from the Heath, across into Highgate.  
My car is left behind where I parked it on Parliament Road, as come hell or high water, Brett will not permit me to drive.  
It isn't that far, and doesn't take us long to reach Brett's house.  
He'd suggested walking to help work off some of my restless energy, but it doesn't appear to have worked.

I could think of a decidedly more fun and enjoyable way of working off my restless energy, but let's not even go there.....  
Besides, some horizontal jogging in the sack with Brett would undoubtedly be the death of me, especially as now instead of feeling carefree and reckless my heart feels like its racing at 1000 miles a second, and I'm paranoid. Convincing  myself I'm destined for a heart attack.

"It's just the effect of the speed, try not to panic." Brett assures me, as I pace back and forth, feeling like I'm about to die, no doubt wearing out a path in his carpet.

I clutch at my chest. I feel heavy, my boots suddenly feeling like breeze blocks.  
Brett's basement flat is about as bright as the average tomb, but his high, wooden beamed ceiling seems as high as a skating ring.  
Oh no. It's just me that's high.

But he's going to look after me. He keeps telling me that, and I do believe him.  
It was decided by mutual agreement that I should spend the night here, because I can't go home in this state. I'm not up to the task of pretending to feel alright. My acting skills are not of that standard, and my dad would throw a fit and want to skin Brett alive, even though this is entirely my own fault.  
Again.

I have no idea where I stand with Brett now, and there's no point exhausting my brain trying to get an idea.  
Initially I had clung to the comforting thought that he was so drunk he'd just forget everything, or worst case scenario, only remember the broad outlines.  
But as he takes charge, finding me some Mogadon, which is Nitrazepam, and he explains how they're used for short-term relief from severe anxiety and insomnia, I realise he wasn't nearly drunk enough, or in fact drunk at all. Having seemed to have sobered up rapidly. 

"Do you want to borrow a T.shirt to sleep in?" He offers, standing in the doorway of his bedroom, clutching a glass of water. 

"No thanks. I'm good." I've removed my boots, and climb as gracefully as I can onto his large bed.  
It's so much larger than the one we were going to share at Kevin's place. All the better to roll around in...

But no.  
The answer is no.  
No, no, no there won't be, can't be, any sex.

He has a girlfriend.  
There should never have even been a kiss, and yes he didn't exactly push me off, but I was the instigator.  
He was being affectionate and kind, and I must've misread the signals. The drug was impairing my thinking.  
I can't believe I said all those things about him. About his...his...

...his willy!

Forget the speed, I could die right now from the shame.  
How will I be able to face him in the morning? I'll never be able to face him again. I want to hide. I want to dig a great big hole and bury myself. Or change my identity.  
I want to move to Nepal and live out the rest of my life as a goat.  
I am that ashamed of myself.

Seeing Brett's room had a sobering impact on me.  
This is serious stuff.  
I shouldn't have acted on impulse, knowing how strongly Brett feels against cheating. And he clearly - perhaps misguidedly - loves Anick, otherwise he wouldn't tolerate the weird, third-party situation.  
I trust him completely but I no longer trust myself.

I rub at my temples furiously, as if to rid myself of all these thoughts, and he's oblivious to my inner-turmoil, or so it seems, as he casually unlaces his old Doc Marten boots, and then lays down on the bed beside me.

Oh. Holy. Jesus.

Having a stressed out, nervous, overwrought madwoman that talks about your willy, in your bed, might be enough to throw some men into a panic.  
Brett isn't one of them. 

"Do you ever try not to think about something?" I find myself thinking aloud.

He smiles at me lazily. "I rarely have to try." 

He has no idea what I'm talking about, and why would he?  
Even I have no idea what I'm talking about, so there's no hope for him.

He reaches over his shoulder and switches off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.  
"Try and get some rest, Sammy. You've had a long day. Those sleeping pills will kick in soon. They'll just bring you down gently, and help you sleep. Your mood might feel a bit low over the next couple of days though. That's all part of the come-down, feeling depressed. It's a bit like playing a Smiths album really."

"Thank you." I rasp.  
I almost reach out to touch him, but I don't.  
This is dangerous territory.  
Instead I turn over, and force my eyes closed.

I'm alone with Brett in the dark.  
I can hardly breath.  
The seedy part of my brain that produces mucky thoughts, wonders if he'll spring into action. Wondering if he'll make a move....

He does make a move, but this involves him coming up close behind me, wrapping his arm around me protectively.  
I'm in his arms, and it means everything to me right now.  
If he'd have reached up and taken the stars out of the sky and offered them to me, it still couldn't compare to this.

We're fully-dressed, and lay spooning on top of the duvet. Our bodies ironically fit together like two spoons in a drawer.  
I wish I could bottle this feeling, so I could keep it and reopen it at my leisure.  
I have to enjoy it while it lasts, because however innocent this may be, he's not my boyfriend.  
I am not his girlfriend.  
Not anymore.

 

Eventually I drop off, but my sleep is fitful, with strange dreams barging in uninvited.

I'd rather not repeat the details.....


	19. I Want To Know What Love Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N*  
> Hey guys, I really really hope you all like this....to say I'm a little nervous is putting it mildly! 
> 
> As always, all comments/kudos/constructive criticism is welcomed and much appreciated.  
> Thank you all for taking the time to read my story, this fic wouldn't have gotten this far without your wonderful support XOXO
> 
> **************************

I wake the following morning, and I'm going to be honest....I have no idea where I am.  
The bed I'm in - or rather, on - is soft and a bit lumpy, and it is way too dark in here to be my room.  
And it isn't my dad's living room, because I'm most definitely not on his bed-settee, and as far as I'm aware he hasn't installed blackout blinds.  
This room I'm in now is gloomy, and surprisingly cool considering it's still summer. It also smells unfamiliar, a bit incense-y and like whiskey. 

And more importantly, I'm definitely not alone. This realisation hits me quickly and I'm in shock for a moment.  
Who is curled up around me? 

Ah....hold on a minute...  
This is Brett's room. And this is Brett's bed. Which can only mean one thing....

Now I'm all too aware of the sensation of his body behind me. Well, all around me.  It's warm, and solid, and knowing that it is Brett doing his best impression of a sleeping koala bear, makes my breath stick in my throat. He's wrapped around me like I'm the last eucalyptus tree on earth.

I glance down quickly, and notice that I am still dressed in my faded pink and white checked shirt and white jeans.  
Incidentally, is it just me or are jeans one of the most uncomfortable items of clothing to sleep in? Not that I make a habit of it, but I was so out of it last night I couldn't even be bothered to take Brett up on his offer of wearing one of his T.shirts. Besides that would've meant I'd be bottomless, and we can't have that.

So I spent the night with Brett, and nothing happened.  
Unfortunately.  
No, I shouldn't think like that.

As far as I'm aware, Brett should still be in full possession of his clothes too, not that I'd mind if he wasn't, and we are not under the covers, but it still feels very intimate. Nice....exceedingly nice....but undeniably intimate.

He has a long arm wrapped tightly around my waist, and his even longer legs intertwined with mine. His face is nuzzled into the area between the back of my neck and shoulders, and I can feel him breathing against me. Which I'll admit, is a strangely emotional experience.

The last person I woke up like this with was Jason, and his huge arms would hold me in a bear hug. But he was more of a grizzly bear, Brett is a snugly koala. His embrace is secure but tender. So It doesn't feel like he's crushing any vital organs.

He feels so right, my traitorous brain keeps telling me, but I can't dwell on that or allow my mind to wander.  
I can't help wondering what it would feel like to wake up next to him like this every morning. Would it become boring like it used to feel with Jason, even only after a couple of weeks? Or would it always feel this way?  
I have a feeling I know but its not worth thinking about. There's no point pining after what you can't have. Simple as that.  
So I decide just to enjoy the closeness.  
Even though there's this undeniable yearning deep inside.

I had thought if I take things for exactly what they are then everything wouldn't seem so complicated or overwhelming.  
The problem is, I don't know how to take things anymore. Thanks to my inability to control myself the boundaries are now blurred.  
I feel a sudden onset of panic as I replay the actions from the night before. What the hell had I been thinking?  


I close my eyes, forcing all unwanted thoughts aside, hoping I can fall back to sleep. I want to just lay here, with Brett, and forget everything. Just forget the world.  
No such luck though, as I suddenly feel him stir, and I hold my breath and wait. For some strange reason I don't want him to know I'm awake. I don't want to break this spell. This perfect moment.

A few seconds later he moves again, and oh my God I actually feel his lips graze the back of my neck.  
It's not intentional I realise, as he's still half asleep, but the effect is still startling. His large hand and those lovely long fingers press into my stomach, as if instinctively he pulls me closer against his wall of torso.  
Agh...this is bad, but it feels sinfully good. My heart begins pounding and something deep inside my stomach starts sending out waves and screams of absolute pleasure.

He has me pressed against him, and my mind has slowed to a crawl. I can't think straight....and then reason kicks in.  
I shouldn't be here spooning with him. He has a girlfriend for that sort of thing. Lucky cow that she is.

So, being as the arm that I've been laying on anyway has gone numb, I deliberately move. Wriggling so that he extricates me from his embrace, and he duly rolls onto his back and away from me slightly, with a bit of a grunt.

I turn over carefully and look at him. He runs his hand through his hair and down over his face, muttering something inaudible under his breath. His blue eyes are hazy and have dark circles underneath them. His skin looks dull in the dim light, and his cheeks a little sallow, but his hair is still appallingly good.  
The funniest part is, he's staring straight up at the ceiling as if he's seen God, and I try hard not to laugh.

"Are you okay?" I venture, keeping my urge to giggle in check.

"Yeah I suppose." His voice is a croaky mix of hungover and grumpy, and he's still staring straight up. "I think last night seriously gave me a bit of brain damage." He adds, a small smile on his lips.

I roll flat onto my back. "Ah, too much to drink? You'll be feeling pretty rough then I can imagine."

"I wasn't all that drunk, it's just the wine....it always gives me a headache. How are you feeling anyway sweet?"

I stiffen immediately, every nerve in my body tingling.  
Did he just call me.....sweet?  
I swallow.  
Don't read too much into it Sam, don't read too much into it.  
It's just a term of endearment nothing more.  
'Yes....but he used to call you that when you were an item' a little voice pipes up in my head, but I quickly silence it.

"Um, well I'm still alive and I don't feel suicidal yet, but hey there's still time." I laugh falsely.

He scrambles around slightly, then sits up against the pillows.  
Now let's get one thing straight, Brett is a slim guy but he's in no way small. He's sort of sprawling, and takes up more room on his large bed than he naturally should.

"Thank you for taking care of me." I add as an afterthought. 

He gazes idly down at me with his slightly bloodshot eyes, which then briefly flicker down to my chest.  
This is when I notice that during the course of the night a few of the buttons on my shirt have worked their way undone.  
Oops. If my neckline plunges any lower it'll be subterranean.  
I haul myself up a little and hastily fasten them, and he looks away quickly. 

"You don't have to thank me." He says softly. "I've gotta be honest with you, I was a bit worried....you know, after last time..." He doesn't finish his sentence, but I understand only too well.

I shift awkwardly and contemplate climbing off the bed. "Well it wasn't anywhere near the same. I wasn't drunk, and I take my insulin religiously these days....so, there was no need to worry."

He nods slowly. "I s'pose so. I can't really help it though. It's like I just felt this unshakable need to protect you. That's why I held you all night. Sorry for that."

It is then i recall what he said to me last night, something about him still caring. My heart begins fluttering but I scoff, trying hard to play down all the intense emotions he's inadvertently stirring up inside me. I can't let him think that just because he went along with letting me kiss him last night, and that he's being sweet now means that all is forgiven.  
So I brush it off with humour and sarcasm, which is my go-to defence when it comes to not knowing how to handle a situation.

"You don't have to say sorry. I just figured you're a serial sleep-spooner or something."

He frowns but grins broadly, looking ridiculously, devilishly handsome. "A serial sleep-spooner? I don't know what that means."

"Of course you do, it's a person who automatically cuddles up to whoever they're sleeping next to. Even though they're oblivious to what they're doing because they're asleep. So it's completely innocent."

"Well I'm not guilty of being a serial sleep-spooner." He laughs gently, eyes creasing. "I knew what I was doing, but it wasn't meant in a creepy way. I wasn't being a pervert.....Although if I was accidentally poking you in the back, I apologise profusely."

It takes a moment for my scatty brain to register what he's referring to when he says 'poking you in the back' and Jesus have mercy, when the penny drops I know my cheeks turn bright red.

"Well now you mention it, I think maybe you might have." I joke clumsily in an attempt to laugh it off, but oh crap now it sounds like I'm flirting. Which was not my intention.

He looks at me shocked, and then rolls his eyes. "If I had you would know. There'd be no 'think' or 'maybe' about it."

I gasp, and he shrugs casually. "What? I'm only saying."

"Well don't!" 

"Oh, so it's only alright for you to talk about my-"

"Brett, stop!" I grab a pillow and bury my blushing face into it. "Please, don't bring up what I said last night. I was off my head. I didn't know what I was saying."

"Is that right?"

"Yes! Or doing, for that matter!"

"How convenient." He chuckles unashamedly at my expense, so I resort to expertly lobbing the pillow at his head.  
"Oi! I was going to make you breakfast Sammy, but seeing as you're assaulting me you can forget it now." 

I laugh, "Pfft. As if you've never beaten me up with a pillow before, Wolfie. And I'm sure you started it that time."

"No, you did then as well. And look how it ended."

My laughter dissolves as his conclusion registers. Ah, yes. The last time we mucked about with pillows it led to our first (and only) sexual dalliance. The weirdest part is, even though Brett's joking around I can't shake the thought now that maybe he's afraid that any horseplay might result in a repeat performance.

He swings his long legs off the bed, stands and stretches. As he raises his arms his grey T.shirt rides up displaying his toned midriff, which I'm conveniently at eye-level with, and  I have to suppress another gasp.  
Bloody hell, I sorely wouldn't mind a repeat performance. He's so eatable I want him for breakfast. Nothing else, just all of Brett.

I think I need some fresh air.

 

A short while later I find myself sitting in Brett's tiny kitchen, munching on toast whilst watching him fiddling about with a juice maker.  
It's well passed 11:00am now, so I graciously turn down his offer of using his shower, even at the risk of him thinking I'm a complete scruff bag.  
The problem I have is I really need to get going, because I am after all, only down for the weekend, and I need to spend some time with my dad and Jane.  
Brett was very understanding and immediately sprang into action, having showered, fed Fluffington, and he let me use his telephone to check into HQ, just to let my parents know that I'm still alive and will be with them shortly.

"Well, any luck?" Jane had asked me, making it incredibly difficult to answer with Brett nearby.

"I'll speak to you properly when I get there." Was the best I could come up with.  
The worst part is, other than me humiliating myself, there is absolutely nothing to tell her.  
She's bound to be disappointed.

"Do you want me to call you a taxi so you can collect your car?" Brett asks now, as I take the plate I've been using over to the sink. "Or if you want to walk I can go with you if you like?"

I shake my head, wiping my hands on a piece of kitchen towel. "No thanks, it's fine honestly. I should be able to manage it."  
For some reason I feel the need to prove to him that I can function fully by myself, that I'm a fully-fledged adult nowadays, capable of finding my own car.

"Oh, alright then."

I nip to the bathroom so I can quickly use the loo, and attempt to make myself look semi-human.  
Brett's bathroom mirror is bigger than God, and almost takes up an entire wall. This makes it impossible to escape my reflection, which stares back at me aghast in all it's pasty, unkempt glory.  
My eye make-up is smudged, so I look like a four year old that got into her mum's make-up drawer, and my hair could definitely be mistaken for a birds nest. Not a neatly made nest, but rather one that's been made by a demented bird with it's eyes closed whilst under stress. 

I tidy myself up as best I can, using his comb to detangle most of the knots, and I wash my face and wipe away all the smudged mascara.  
I would've liked to have a shower, as I feel really grubby and I haven't quite worked out yet whether it's my shirt or my hair that still smells vaguely of fried onions, but I don't like showering unless I can change into fresh clothes.  
I will definitely have one as soon as I get back to my dad's.

Brett is all fresh, clean and shiny of course, smelling delectable, wearing light denim jeans and a black v-neck T.shirt.  
He looks like he could take a turn on the catwalk, whereas I look like a fitting candidate for the walk of shame.  
Except of course, I've nothing to be ashamed about. Apart from kissing an unobtainable man, but in the grand scheme of things that isn't so bad. At least I haven't indulged in a heavy night of drunken debauchery.  
Chance would be a fine thing, but no.  
Everything has been above board. Apart from the brief, if not slightly heated necking-session on the big wheel....and the spooning.....nothing has gone on that might be deemed questionable.  
We've been very well behaved.

We haven't even discussed anything in relation to us, not that there is an 'us' but I decide not to push the matter.  
I've enjoyed this short time with Brett, just being around him again, and hearing him laugh, has been nice.  
I could yearn for more, but I won't. Perhaps this is all the closure I need. If I try to bring up the past now it would be like spoiling things. I'd rather leave London with new memories of Brett.  
Happier memories that aren't tinged by bitterness.

And as for the kiss last night, well....I wouldn't even know how to broach that subject. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, and let him think that it was down to the drugs.  
I can't have him pitying me.  
So what if I admitted to still fancying him? It's no big deal, lots of women - and men no doubt - fancy him.   
That doesn't mean I still have feelings for him. It really doesn't, and even if I did, which I don't, I can't stand the thought of him knowing.

Pushing all these thoughts aside, I make my way from the bathroom back towards his bedroom. "Brett, I'm just getting my boots, I left them in your room." I shout.

"What?" I hear him call back, in-between the sounds of him pillaging the kitchen drawers and cupboards, and the comforting background babble of the radio. 

"I said....I'm just getting my boots."  
By now I'm already in his room retrieving my boots, so my courtesy is pointless. But I don't want him to think that I'd just wander around his flat as if I own the place. 

As I leave the room, eyes fixed firmly on the muddy state of my boots that I'm clutching in my hand, a little black fluffy blur shoots out in front of me, making me jump.  
"Fluffington!"

So caught up with not wanting to stand on him, I don't notice Brett in the hallway, and I end up stepping out right in front of him. In order to prevent himself from colliding with me he has to stop abruptly too. Although we don't actually bump into each other, this doesn't save the contents of his glass from spilling.

"Shit! I'm so sorry, did I get any on you?" Brett winces, the glass in his hand now all but empty.

I look down at the freshly-squeezed orange juice that I am now wearing.  
"Oh, only.....all of it, everywhere." I joke, noting that it's not only on my shirt, but also my jeans. I mean, how?!

"Bollocks! Hold on, Sammy....I'll sort you out something to change into, and I'll get those cleaned up."

"No it's fine, honestly." I insist as I try to pull my soaking wet shirt away from my skin, but he doesn't seem to be listening. He just stares rather unnervingly at my chest.

"If you take those off quickly I can put them into soak before they stain."

I stare at him, wildly wondering if he's attempting to seduce me. He seems incredibly fixated with my chest and getting me out of my clothes.

"Sammy, orange juice is a nightmare to get out if it's left." He explains patiently.

"You're some sort of laundry expert as well now are you?"

He huffs slightly. "I'm in a band. We go on tour. We play live. Things get messy. So yeah, I suppose you could say I am. You wouldn't believe some of the stains I've had to get out of my clothes."

"Oh I would." I say dryly. "But anyway, I'm not fussed about this shirt-"

"Your jeans are white!" He points out. "They'll be ruined, so please just stop arguing and let me wash them for you. Don't worry I'm not trying to get you naked. You spent the night in my bed and I didn't try to then did I?"

I blush furiously, as he steers me towards his bedroom door. "I...I know." My voice comes out more breathy than I would've liked. "I just....well, I don't want you going to any trouble."

"It's no trouble. Daft arse!" He follows me into the room, and begins rifling through a drawer. Whilst he has his back to me I stand on the other side of the bed, self-consciously peeling off my wet jeans, bobbing up and down precariously. I must look about as sexy as a one-legged pirate, but I'm not known for my sex appeal.

"None of your trousers or jeans will fit me Brett, I'm all hips and arse, and your legs are probably double the length of mine." I wail.

He strokes his chin, contemplating this for a moment, then opens up the wardrobe and pulls out a black shirt. "Use this then. It's long anyway, but it'll be even longer on you, so it'll cover your arse no problem."

He tosses it onto the bed. My cheeks are blazing now, though he does me the courtesy of averting his eyes in a vain attempt to save my modesty.

"Thank you. Er, can you please go out?"

"Eh?"

"So I can change."

"I won't look. Scouts honour!" He covers his face with his large hands, but I'm sure I can already see his twinkling eyes through his splayed fingers.  
He's trying to stop himself from smirking. He seems to think this is all very funny, but I'm not going to disgrace myself by taking off my shirt and bra in front of him.  
Even if he wants me to.

No....he couldn't possibly want that. He's just winding me up. Typical Brett.  
Mischievous, sexy little shit that he is.

"Fine then, I'll go out." He relents at last. "Just hurry up. The sooner I get those into soak the better."

 

*******************

 

I'm sitting on Brett's Chesterfield sofa, nursing a cup of tea and trying to look as dignified as possible which is difficult when my hair has frizzed to oblivion and I'm only wearing a shirt.  
His shirt, to be exact.

He's been mostly preoccupied with scrubbing, spraying and soaking my clothes, which I'm still painfully embarrassed about.  
The juice had soaked right through to my bra, and eventually I'd given in and allowed him to wash that too after he won the argument by stating that he has seen women's underwear before.  
Fair one.  
He's probably seen and handled more lingerie than a sales assistant at Anne Summers.

He was right about the shirt too, it hangs down below my knee, although the buttons are straining to remain closed over my chest, and I'm taking shallow breaths to stop them from pinging open.  
Unfortunately the shirt isn't long enough to save me from the coldness of the leather sofa though, or to hide my ghastly pale legs. The last time Brett saw my legs I was using fake tan, and we were an item, which in my mind alters things quite dramatically, so I'm thankful at least that in-between flitting in and out of the kitchen, he's been busying himself at the piano. 

Whether it was due to the gloominess in here yesterday, or my mind being hampered by the speed, I don't know, but I never even noticed the piano in the corner. In my defence, it was covered by a sheet, but it's distinctive shape is pretty identifiable. You can't really hide a piano.

I watch him closely, mesmerised as he pieces together a tune, breaking off occasionally to scribble onto a notepad.  
Brett is drop-dead gorgeous at the best of times, but as I watch him I'm struck by the glow that seems to surround him as he focuses intently on his work. I've never seen him quite as sexy as he is right now, occupied with this creative energy to the exclusion of all else.

"Are you working on a new song?" I ask and then feel dumb. Of course he's working on something new. When inspiration strikes, artistic types need to act on it. Which is what he appears to be doing, and I feel incredibly privileged to be present during this process.

"Not really." He says, completely throwing me. So much for my theory.  
"It was a demo I started work on a couple of years ago. I'm tempted to revisit it, tidy it up and maybe record it properly." He turns around slowly on the stool so he's facing me, so I cautiously move to tuck my legs up on the sofa beneath me.  
"I wanted to do a piano version, but I'm thinking it sounds better as guitar."

"Can I hear it?"

He hesitates, and I look at him hopefully. Resisting the urge to cross my fingers.  
"Mm....to be honest, I'd rather you didn't....I don't think it would be a good idea." He presses his lips together, one dark eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other.

I feel immensely perplexed, and his words hit me right in the gut. "Okay. That's fine."

"Please, don't look at me like that, Sammy."

"Like what?" I trill defensively. "I'm not looking at you like anything. This is just my face, Brett. I can't help how my face looks."

"No it isn't. You've got that look, like Bambi watching his mother being shot." He comes over and sits down on the edge of the sofa, his proximity makes me feel all prickly and jumpy.  
"It's nothing personal...." He pauses, then sighs deeply. "Well, actually it is....that's the problem."

My mouth goes dry, and my pulse begins to race. It takes enormous effort to string my next sentence together. "W-what do you mean?"

The strangled glimmers of light that have forced their way in through the gaps in the curtains accentuate his features, and I can see all the details of his face. The slight kink in the bridge of his nose. The dark lashes that frame those pool blue eyes.  
I can make out the smile lines around his mouth, and the small creases at the sides of each eye. My gaze skims over a tiny freckle on his cheek, and then along his cheekbones and down to his strong jaw.  
He's like a living work of art.

When I raise my eyes they immediately lock with his. The silence in the room is deafening, and there's that strange heavy atmosphere that's so heavily charged it's practically electric.  
I can't help wondering if he feels it too, or is this all in my mind? But his eyes are so intense, and I'm close enough to see the heavy way he's breathing.  
No amount of pinching is going to wake me up from this dream-like scenario. Or is it a nightmare? Because I long to reach out with my trembling hands and just....just touch him. But I can't.

Just then there's a loud hammering on the front door, startling us both. It is almost comical as we jump simultaneously, guiltily even. Like two naughty children who have just been caught doing something they shouldn't. Except we haven't done anything, which makes it quite laughable.

The banging on the door is almost loud enough to make the glass rattle in the window panes, and I almost spill the cup of tea I've been holding all over Brett's lovely freshly laundered shirt.  
But hey, at least it's black, so it wouldn't leave a visible stain. But then again, I don't know if he still buys clothes from charity shops. This shirt doesn't seem like an Oxfam special, and it probably cost more than my car.

Brett stands and moves toward the door almost mechanically, but he hesitates in the doorway. Something about the way he looks puts me on edge. He's eyeing the door cautiously, as if his home is about to be invaded and plundered by Vikings. 

"What's wrong?" I ask cautiously, his sudden nervousness becoming contagious.

"Nothing, um...I think it might be Anick." He says gravely.

"Oh." I can now register his concern, and gesture reluctantly down to my bare legs. "I would go, but....obviously that isn't an option."

He nods absentmindedly.

"Do you want me to make myself scarce? I could.....hide?" I offer, which goes against everything in me but I have no desire to make life more difficult for him.  
Even though Anick is in no position to judge, I care about Brett and I can see how this doesn't look good. 

"What? No! Of course not." He lingers apprehensively, and I can practically feel his blood pressure rising. "Just....just stay here, and I'll explain everything to her first. If she walks in and sees you like that she'll blow a gasket."

"I understand."

He walks out, then immediately pops his head back around the door. "Oh, and if she's rude to you then I'm sorry. She'll definitely have a go at me, but I'm used to it. This could be really awkward, she can be a bit tempestuous. But I won't let her start on you, so don't panic."

Don't panic?  
He feels the need to forewarn me, but I'm not to panic.

He disappears, closing the living room door behind him, and I sit incredibly still, as if any movement will be detrimental. Which is ridiculous. My palms are actually sweating as they clutch onto the mug for dear life.  
What is she, some sort of wild cat that's going to try and scratch my eyes out?  
Pfft. I'd like to see her try.  
Obviously I can see how this might look, and as Brett's girlfriend she's bound to be none too chuffed about me having spent the night here. Nor can I imagine would she be impressed by the sight of me sitting bottom-less on her boyfriend's settee, wearing one of his shirts.....

Oh dear.  
When I sum it all up, this does look really really bad.

I hear the door open, and then her voice. It's raised and most definitely agitated.  
Then I hear Brett's voice, growing gradually louder but it sounds as if he's trying to remain calm.  
I strain to listen but I can't make out what's being said, other than the odd snippet here and there...and there's lots of curse words flying around, all of which are coming from her.

Something something..... "You bastard!".......something something..  
"Fuck you!".....something or other...."I fucking hate you!"..... something else....

Jesus, this is bad. And I'm crippled with guilt. I'm torn between affording the couple their privacy, more than aware that my presence may just aggravate things, and intervening. Maybe I could explain to Anick that absolutely nothing untoward has gone on.

The shouting escalates to screaming, and then suddenly I hear something smash. It sounds suspiciously like glass breaking, and I instinctively jump to my feet.  
What the hell is going on?

I open the door a little and stare open-mouthed at Brett, who's T.shirt and hair is now wet, and he's grappling with an enraged Anick.

"Will you just....stop?" He practically begs, his voice strained. "Calm down. You're going to hurt yourself, and I'm not going through all that again Anick, I'm just not!"

His hands are around her wrists, by the looks of things not tight enough to hurt, not even close. He's restraining her as best he can, trying to prevent her from tearing him to shreds.

"Go and fuck yourself!" She shrieks like a howling banshee, as she attempts to kick at his shins. "You don't have to go through anything. Go back to your fucking lost love. Go fuck each other! Bastard!"

I stare with a mixture of horror and relief, as he somehow successfully manoeuvres her back along the hallway, before hastily bundling her outside, and slamming the door shut.  
He leans back against it, gasping for breath, closing his eyes in apparent relief.

"Brett?" I open the living room door fully, intending to walk towards him but he stops me.

"Don't....don't come in here Sammy, not in your bare feet. There's broken glass." He pants.

I look around wildly and then notice the fragments of what was once a vase, littering the hallway floor. The carpet is wet, and there's water splashed up the wall. Some white peonies are strewn about, their beautiful petals ruined, having been stomped on during the tussle.

"Shit! Did she throw that vase at you?" 

He's moving around efficiently now, picking up the largest shards of glass, and just then Anick begins banging violently on the front door with her fists. I can make out her shadowy form through the opaque glass.  
What is wrong with her?

"It didn't hit me."

"Didn't hit you? She shouldn't be throwing stuff at you in the first place! What is her problem? She's completely overreacting-"

"She's always like this." Brett cuts me off, and I'm struck by the weariness in his tone. He suddenly seems so emotionally exhausted. Not angry though. He just looks tired, and perhaps a bit sad.

"Are you kidding me? What do you mean she's always like this?"

She's still pounding on the door relentlessly, and shouting abuse but Brett is doing a fine job of ignoring it.  
I on the other hand, am sorely tempted to go out and give her a piece of my mind. 

"I told you, she's a tempestuous little thing. This is nothing new. We argue all the time, she gets a bit crazy. She comes at me, I end up having to fend her off....sometimes she claims I hurt her by grabbing her, and then she demands I take her to hospital. We're regulars at the local accident and emergency department. They usually send us away and tell us to stop wasting their time."

I stare at him agog, unable to process what I'm hearing. "Tempestuous? Brett, she's insane!"

I stand aside so that he can pass by me, his wet T.shirt sticking to his slender frame, but he doesn't even seem to notice as he goes on cleaning up almost robotically. He's not at all fazed by what's gone on.

Eventually Anick appears to give up, and I sit numbly unable to absorb what has just taken place.  
I desperately, desperately want to rush over, to hold Brett in my arms and share his trauma.  
But he isn't showing any outward signs of being affected by this.  
To him this is....normal.

"I hope the police don't turn up again." He's saying now worriedly, having finished cleaning up the debris from the altercation. "I was late getting back from an interview once and she put a brick through the front window. I paid to have it replaced of course, but if she keeps damaging the house and kicking off, the owners are going to get a bit pissed off."

"D'ya think?" I say, a bit too harshly, but I can't help it. I am beyond frustrated by his blasé attitude.  
"Why aren't you pissed off? Why do you put up with this shit? I don't get why you don't seem to care."

"Because it's not all bad." He shrugs, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "And maybe that's it, perhaps I don't care."

"What? That makes no sense!"

"It does, because I'm not in love with her. Not really. I think I'm in love with the idea of being in love, if that makes any sense? But deep down, I know she's not the one for me." He's looking like he has given the matter some serious thought, and is starting to get used to the idea.

I shake my head, I can't quite comprehend why Brett would resign himself to being with someone just for the sake of it. He could have his pick of women, yet he chooses to put up with this abuse and mistreatment, and it is so utterly heartbreaking. I want to cry.  
I'm distressed on his behalf. He's being so apathetic, it's astonishing.

"Then why don't you just finish with her? I'm sorry it's not my place to say, but it's a bit of a no-brainer isn't it? She's seeing someone else anyway. Why stay with someone just for the sake of it?"

"Being alone doesn't bother me." He says coolly, as he lights up a cigarette. "I'm not with her just for the sake of being in a relationship. I do love her, I'm just not in love with her. That's the difference."

I take a half-step forward, no longer bothering to try and hide my rising exasperation. "Is that what she meant when she said 'go back to your lost love?' Was she....was she talking about Justine?" 

Brett's head whips up at the mention of his ex's name, and his expression clouds with confusion. "What are you talking about?" 

"Well that would at least make some sense I suppose. Even you said Anick is not the one, so maybe that's why she treats you so badly..." I exclaim, voice trembling slightly. "....partly because you allow it to continue, but if she knows that you're still in love with your ex then perhaps that's why she behaves like she does-"

"You seem to be forgetting something, you're my ex. Not Justine!" He blusters, and I'm temporarily stunned into silence. "And It's only natural for Anick to feel a little threatened by you."

"Why is that such a given? Just because I felt threatened by Justine doesn't mean that Anick would feel threatened by me."

God, I almost pity him. He is intelligent, creative and beautiful but so damned. Condemned to love the wrong kind of woman for an eternity. 

Brett now takes a step closer, and he looks angry, B&H fumes pouring from his nostrils. Strange how having a vase thrown at him doesn't bother him in the slightest, but the two of us exchanging words like this seems to have tripped a switch.  
"You've always been fixated with Justine. You were then, and you still are now. Even after I explained things to you....it wasn't enough was it? You never trusted me!"

"Huh! Trust you? I was apprehensive, Brett. I was terrified of getting hurt.....and with good reason!" 

"What do you mean with good reason? I would've proved to you that you had nothing to fear, but you never gave me the chance!" His face is a mask of barely-suppressed fury, but the look in his eyes is quite at odds with his fierce countenance. They look frantic. Wounded. Hurt.

I feel heat rising in me like a volcano but I'm helpless to contain it as an angry burst of adrenaline surges through my bloodstream. He has no right to look so heartbreakingly sad. Absolutely no bloody right.  
I was the injured party, not him. I have absolutely no idea what he's going on about. He's clearly spent too much time around Anick. He has caught crazy.

"You never gave us a chance!" I practically scream at him. I feel my jaw tense and chin begin to quiver, but I won't allow myself to cry. I fight it hard. "I waited and waited for you Brett, but you never wrote. You never called...you just....disappeared!" 

I feel tears pooling at the back of my eyes so I turn away abruptly, struggling to regain some composure, but he grasps my shoulders, spinning me around and suddenly he is so close that I can feel his hot, angry breath on my face.

"What are you talking about? I did write! I wrote you time and time again and I never got one single reply. When I tried calling you it was an incorrect number. I just presumed your mum must've written it down wrong, but I did write!" He turns and haphazardly stubs out his cigarette, which he's only half-smoked. "Are you trying to tell me that you never received any of my letters?" 

I stand frozen, completely immobile. Even my mouth feels numb with shock, and I am physically shaking.  
He's saying that he actually wrote to me, but how can that be possible?  
Okay so Royal Mail are notoriously bad, but if he's claiming that every one of his letters got lost in the post, he must think I'm stupid. It beggars belief. It just isn't feasible.

"I never got one!" I try to steady my breathing, and eye him dubiously. "So are you going to try and tell me that they all got lost in the mail?"

He takes a step back and glares at me for what seems like the longest few moments of my life. "You don't believe me?"

"Why the hell should I?!" I hurl at him.

"Why the hell shouldn't you?" He snarls back, drawing nearer again, so that I am nose to nose with him. "Oh wait, that's right...you don't trust me. Well at least I had the guts to trust again, even after Justine did what she did. At least I had the guts to love again!"

This was not what I had in mind when I wanted a heart-to-heart.  
I had naively hoped that maybe we could have discussed things calmly, but this is all wrong.  
He's twisting everything out of shape until it doesn't even resemble the truth, the truth as I recall it, anymore

I toss my head back and glare up at him. "Are you saying that I didn't?"

I see a small vein in his forehead pulsating violently. "That's exactly what I'm saying!" He spits. "And you still don't!"

Now I am not Anick. I could never intentionally hurt Brett, even at times such as this when he's pushing my buttons.  
But which buttons is he pushing exactly? That's the problem now it would seem, as I raise my hand, but not to hit him.  
Maybe I intend to push him away, but instead it goes to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair.  
And his hands are suddenly around my waist, hauling me closer.  
Then our mouths are locked together, hands clutching, bodies straining towards each other.  
All that longing and need that has built up, now clamours for release, and no other man will do.

It has to be Brett.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god...  


...Breath.....breath...

There seems to be too much air in my lungs so I can only take little sips of his breath, but I want to devour him. My hungry mouth melds with his, I feel the tip of his tongue graze mine, and now the kiss becomes more deep, more urgent.  
My body where it is pressed against his, burns. We breath heavily against each other, and I can only think of what the fastest and easiest way to get closer to him could be.  
We move in a frenzy, becoming a tornado of hands and arms and mouths. The sound of my blood roars in my ears, as my heart thuds away like a marathon runners' on approach to the 26 mile marker.

Somehow during all the kissing and clutching, my shirt - or rather, Brett's shirt - has come unbuttoned, and his damp T.shirt has been pulled over his head and tossed into a far corner of the room.  
I slide my hands up and over his sinewy torso and he eagerly returns the gesture. His touch on my bare skin has my entire body shaking. The feel of his slightly calloused fingertips, rough from years of guitar playing, make me swoon. And when he unexpectedly replaces his hands with his mouth, I swear my eyes roll right back into my head.

"Shit, Sammy! Do you have any idea what you do to me?" He rasps, his lips brushing over the swell of my breast before sucking my nipple into his tantalisingly warm mouth.

"Oh? Well, please....please." What am I even saying? I know I should be a little more ladylike but I honestly don't have enough blood flowing to my brain to make that call. "I mean, show me." I beg, my trembling hands fumbling desperately to work loose the buckle on his belt. He groans low in his throat, rolling his hips against me, and I whimper. 

There is more kissing, and then some cannoning off walls and furniture. We inadvertently knock over the piano stool and a guitar, but Brett doesn't seem to care. He pushes me back against the cabinet, hooking my leg over his hip, which sends a stack of records crashing to the ground. Still he doesn't bat an eyelid, until the safest thing to do, we realise, is to collapse onto the leather sofa.  
It's much easier there to wriggle even closer, so that all of him is pressed against all of me.

There is somening about the weight of this man on top of me that is intoxicating, and indescribable. The man that I have never stopped dreaming about, who is now cradling me so completely tenderly yet fiercely in his arms, making the sensation even more magnetic. I close my eyes, feeling only Brett, and I want to live in this moment forever.  
His kisses grow even more demanding, more carnal, more sensual.  
Instinctively we both seem to know that it isn't sugary sweetness or gentleness that either of us need from each other. Not now. Not after all this time.  
We've reached fever-pitch and once those slinky hips of his are in position between my thighs, there is no turning back.  
He hesitates for barely a second, but I feel the pause, as if he's waiting for me to stop him. My response? I boldly wrap my legs tightly around him, pulling him nearer to me, and then he's......

.....Oh, for the love of....

"God!"  
I half-cry, half-moan as he slides into me like an eel into oil, and we both gasp with a spontaneous expression of exactness.

Holy shit....holy holy shit.....this is really, most definitely happening.  
Finally!!

We groan together, both of us breathing fast as we fall into rhythm. Brett is deliciously heavy and warm on me, and I am lost to the exquisite sensations of his male heat, of his clean-spicy scent, of being trapped between his firm chest and the sofa....impaled.  
We kiss hungrily, clinging to each other like a desperate, drowning couple. 

My pulse is rocketing, and I swear I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, my wrists and where we are joined.  
His supple body moves atop of mine with unadulterated enthusiasm, gaining momentum as we fuse together like two pieces of well-oiled machinery that work beautifully as one when conjoined. We're in perfect sync, which creaties a glorious impact on my senses and body. 

If they didn't know it before, then all of his neighbours are bound to know Brett's name now. I'm sure the sounds he's eliciting from me would be considered noise pollution, or even illegal in respectable neighbourhoods.  
And to think I once poured scorn on Jem for her noisiness, now here I am managing to out-moan her, whilst Brett's appreciative, sexy, masculine groans far surpass those of Alex.

Lord have mercy, Brett is so very very good at sex.  
Well, why wouldn't he be when he's so good at everything else? And they do say that practice is supposed to make perfect. I don't want to think about how much practice he's had, but his clearly has. It is perfect, in a very hard, frenzied, sweaty, explosive kind of way.  
We have the sort of sex that people may describe as 'animalistic'.  
At one point his lovely teeth gently nip at my neck and sink into my shoulder, as I urgently rake my fingernails down the vast expanse of his back, leaving marks on his skin no doubt.  
I reach the pivotal of all pleasures not just once, but twice. I see bright dots of light and call out his name in a strangled voice as each climax racks my body, ripping my soul wide open and shattering me into a million pieces.  
Good grief. I'm convinced I'm going to pass out.  
When Brett reaches the point of no return, he swears loudly as he tumbles over the edge and follows me into the euphoric abyss. Moaning my name as if it were a curse word, he presses his face into my hair. 

Afterwards we're both lay panting in a sweaty tangle of limbs. I have to suppress the urge to mutter a heartfelt "wow" but there is no time to bathe in the afterglow like two lovers, because we're not lovers.  
I have to remind myself of that undeniably painful fact.  
We are two people, who were fuelled by anger and betrayal, and raw emotion, and years of unresolved sexual tension.

Well, it has now well and truly been resolved, and I can't let my post-orgasmic hazed mind dwell on how utterly divine the sex was.

Have I made the mother of all mighty mistakes?  
Probably.  
Angry people, often do unwise things.  
I've become the third-party.  
Brett has unquestionably become what he most loathes, of what we both loathe, a cheat! And I was an all too-willing participant.  
So what does that make me? What must he think of himself, and of me now?  
I shudder.  
I don't want to know.

"Was that gutsy enough for you?" I say waspishy, as I hastily reach for my discarded underwear. I'm still angry with him, and if I'm going to play this down, then I probably ought to be wearing knickers.

He scowls at me, clearly annoyed by my unapologetic meanness. "Oh, so that was just your way of proving a point was it?" He snipes back, as he pulls on his jeans. "Or maybe nothing more than a pity-shag, perhaps?"

My neck and face is already flushed from our amorous activities and now I'm burning like a brand. I leave Brett hunting for his belt and retreat hastily to the kitchen in order to take my clothes from his tumble dryer.  
They're hot enough to burn my fingers but I need to just get dressed and go, and leave it at that.

If I'm being truly honest with myself, I don't want to leave it at that, and neither so it would seem, does Brett, as he now joins me in the kitchen to continue the discussion....or rather, argument...but neither of us are willing to back down, to show vulnerability, to just admit that we don't want to leave it at that.  
Whatever 'that' is.

"So, it appears I've become the new Damon haven't I? Christ! And you're just going to do what exactly? Shag-and-go? Well, that's fucking charming. Thanks very much-"

"Oh stop it! Don't be so vulgar." I yank my jeans on with such force I almost lose a couple of toes in the process and nearly topple over. "What do you expect me to do? Stick around and become part of your fucked up little love-triangle thing? I don't think so."

"It's a bit late for that, don't ya think?" His voice is an octave or two deeper than usual, and he sounds slightly more Southern.

"Ugh! Just shut up, please! I should never have let you drag me into your...your....girlfriend crisis!"

"Excuse me? I never dragged you into anything!"

We argue like this as I continue to get dressed, as I make my way down the hall, as he grabs me by the arm, as we get dangerously close to his bedroom...until it's happening all over again.  
The kissing, the touching, the frantic removal of clothing....the sex.

Once it's all over we doze for awhile, still wrapped around each other. Then wake up and do it again....and then again....but this time without the squabbling as foreplay.  
We do it again just for the sheer hell of it, because what we've done twice before, felt so damn good.  
The sex was mind-blowingly amazing when we were angry, and it's even better still when we're not. Hence, going at it for a fourth round....which is all tender caresses, gentle kisses, and whispered declarations of love.

Yes. Love.

I shouldn't allow myself to get too carried away though, just in case he was saying it due to being too caught up in the moment, or out of politeness.  
I want him to love me. Only me. I want to save him from the evil clutches of Anick, and Justine, and whoever else..  
I'm so afraid that we could be embarking yet again on a road to nowhere.  
I'm due to start Uni next month, my long-term goal is to perhaps become a rock photographer, or if all else fails, maybe work freelance for the Manchester Evening News.  
Brett's life has taken him on a separate road. Though to be fair, we were never on the same journey to begin with. Our paths merely crossed by pure chance. Or maybe fate, as Jane would have me believe.  
But what if this is destined to only end in heartache and despair?

We lay in blissful, innocent silence. Contentedly enjoying the proximity and perfection of the moment, until Brett drifts off into a soft slumber.  
By now my thighs - and certain other, ahem, 'parts' - are aching, tender from having accommodated him there.  
I couldn't care less about the discomfort though, inside I am positively glowing.  
I'll have a tell-tale cowboy strut by tomorrow, and most likely won't be able to sit down without wincing. But hot damn, it was worth it!

Had we only done the deed once, I might've been able to dismiss it as a mistake. A moment of weakness, or madness. An act of indiscretion on my part.  
But several acts of indiscretion aren't as easy to pass off.  That is drifting into the category of what Jane would most undoubtedly deem as 'mad shagging.'

Except it wasn't simply just basic sex. It was far more deep, intense and meaningful .

I watch Brett sleeping for a while, not in a creepy way, but more because I want to memorise all the details. The long sweep of his spine, the small freckles that are dotted across his shoulders. His bed-rumpled hair.

I watch him until my heart becomes an impatient bugger, and time seems to be of the essence. I can't wait a minute longer.

"Brett." I nudge him gently awake, though I feel guilty for doing it. The poor guy has earned a well-deserved rest.

He stirs, and slowly opens one eye. "Hm...you alright, sweet?"

"Brett, I'm sorry but I have to ask.....did you....did you mean what you said, you know, before?" 

I'm only too aware that I must sound like the worlds clingiest, neediest woman, but I had to ask him. I won't be able to get a moments rest until I do.  
And heaven knows I need some rest. I mean, come on.....

FOUR TIMES!!!

That's the stuff legends are made of. And of course, he just had to be a complete God in the sack didn't he? I'm not being biased, it was all kinds of yeah.  
At the risk of sounding crass, he's the best I've ever had. Up until now, I'd firmly believed that the term 'multiple-orgasms' was nothing more than a myth.  
Now I want to cry tears of regret for all that wasted time.

He rolls onto his back now so he can look at me fully, curling one arm behind his head. "Sorry, sweet....I must've nodded off, you'll have to jog my memory. I said rather a lot, as I recall."

He certainly did.  
Especially when he was ravishing me on the sofa, the horny little devil.  
His unveiled lust was startlingly arousing, as he whispered an absolute torrent of filth into my ear, about how much he wanted me, what he wanted to do to me, and how he was going to do it.....and so on....  
I feel a fierce heat spear low in my belly at the mere memory. 

But I'm letting myself be distracted.

"Er, you know, what you said about....about loving me." I say quietly.

There, I said it.

He raises a dark eyebrow, and then.....winks at me.  
"Of course I meant it. My heart has always belonged to you. I've never really had a say in the matter." He doesn't sound very happy about this ownership of his heart, and he bites on his full bottom lip, looking suddenly very serious and thoughtful.  
"But I need that level of love to be reciprocated."

"You mean you want me to have the guts to love you in the same way?" I fiddle nervously with the edge of the blanket.

"Yeah, basically. That's all I've ever wanted." He says this softly, his eyes searching mine.

"Brett, I'd only be kidding myself if I said I didn't already. I've never stopped. So I'm gutsier than you give me credit for, but I'm scared because I don't see how it could work-"

He leans over and places the tip of his finger against my lips, prompting me into silence.  
"Just tell me. Tell me you love me and that you want what I want. Tell me you'll trust me, and that we'll never lose each other again. Tell me that the past is in the past...and we will make this work. I promise."

My heart is thumping wildly, and I swear it explodes in my chest. "I...I love you Brett..and I do want what you want....I will trust you, we won't ever lose each other again..."  
I have to pause for a breath, to suppress the sob that's bubbling up inside my throat.  
"...the past is...is in the past...and...and you're right, we will make it work!"  
I just have time to breath the last words into a sentence before I dissolve into floods of unstoppable tears.

Happy tears. Tears of unrivalled joy.

I feel myself inwardly crumple, overcome with emotion and my body sags into him.  
He's there ready, ready to catch me, and he holds me tightly in his capable arms.

"That's all I needed to hear." He smiles, kissing the top of my head, and I rest my head against his sturdy chest.  
"I love you, Sammy Lewis."

"And I love you Wolfie. I love you so much."

We are nestled into his bed, and the blankets are surrounding us like a cocoon. It's warm, and cosy and....perfect.

I never want to leave here.  
Ever. Ever. Ever.

....The last coherent thought I have before falling asleep is that I must remember to buy Blandine a thank you card.


	20. Pillow Talk

I honestly have no idea what time it is, as the room is still mostly cloaked in darkness, but as I flop my arm over to where Brett should be I only feel empty pillows and smooth linen.  
I am alone.  
There is no koala-Brett in arms distance.

I slowly turn to look where he ought to be, feeling a bit groggy and disoriented. The bed feels startlingly empty without him. Much too empty.  
I know he can't have gone far, it is his house after all so it's highly unlikely that he would bugger off out somewhere and leave me all by myself, but still, I suddenly feel a teensy bit panick-stricken. Like reality is starting to kick in now, and it is harshly unforgiving.

Brett has told me that he loves me, and it's like serious 'my heart belongs to you' love, and I most definitely love the bones of him. Without a doubt. From his size 10 feet, right the way up to his pretty little head.  
Always have, always will.  
So that's really romantic and charming isn't it? It's all very adorable.  
We're like those scruffy little teddies you get on greeting cards, surrounded by love hearts and little birds.  
Except things look dramatically different when you wake up on your own.  
As much as I don't want to face it, there are problems. Quite frankly, there are issues.  
Like Brett's angry girlfriend for a start. 

He didn't and hasn't yet officially broken up with her, and if her earlier performance was anything to go by....I doubt she'll take the news very well.  
Then of course there's the distance, and the matter of his rock and roll status, which has always been a bit of a problem for me.  
It's all well and good to lay here musing about love's young dream, and teddyhood, but I need to be realistic. 

I promised him that this will work, and I desperately want it to, but can I work through my own insecurities? Will I be able to trust Brett and not drive myself insane missing him or worrying that when he's not singing to hoards of adoring fans he'll be giving them fabulous times in bed? Like most, if not all, rock stars.

Ugh.

I can't allow myself to go there.  
I need to get a grip and stop this. He'd be furious. Trust is a big deal to him.  
Although....technically he has cheated on Anick now, with me.  
Who's to say that he might not be tempted by another some time in the future? Especially when we'll be apart so often.

Oh God.

I force these unpleasant thoughts aside, and do my best to return my attention to the moment.  
I need to focus on the here and now instead.

I'm still not wearing any clothes, which is a big no no for me.  
I mean, what if there was an emergency? A fire or something? What if I had to leave in a hurry? To be honest I think I'd rather burn right along with everything else, rather than run the risk of having to flee in my birthday suit. Giving all the poor, unfortunate neighbours an eye-full. Oh the horror!

Still, I have a justifiable excuse for falling asleep in the buff.  
Nothing kills a mood quite like turning to your bed-partner and saying, "Let's get dressed now shall we?"  
Besides, that would be a crying shame where Brett is concerned. Not only is he a mouth watering sight to behold, there's also something very persuasive and convincing about him being naked. You sort of want to cast all inhibitions aside and be naked with him

Normally I'd be incredibly self-conscious but in the heat of passion, all hang ups are forgotten.  
His body is like sculpted marble. He's like living, breathing, poetry in motion. Statuesque, gorgeous perfection.  
It's so easy to get completely swept up in the moment. 

Rolling over, I bury my face into his pillow and breath deeply, inhaling the scent of him and smile to myself. He smells as beautiful as he looks.

A few moments later the bedroom door opens, in he slinks, and all air in the room leaves.  
I keep my eyes partially closed, watching him move slowly.  
The diffused, hazy light that seeps through the gaps in the curtains keeps the room in a silver-grey filter so it's not particularly clear what he's wearing, but I can only describe it as a kimono dressing gown.  
It's black, has a Chinese dragon on the left side, and is short. Very short.  
Like, mid-thigh short, and his never-ending height just accentuates the shortness of it.

My brain quickly registers two things...  
1....It cannot belong to him, it's ever so slightly too feminine and it clearly isn't long enough to safely hide his modesty.  
And 2....he still looks ludicrously sexy.

No I am not mentally impaired, I know how it must sound, but Brett could make a black bin liner look sexy.  
He looks adorably dishevelled, thanks to me having tousled his hair into a sex-ruffled mess, and the thought of him being buck-ass nude beneath that tiny robe is enough to make a lustful tingle run down my spine.

My sweet Lord... I've been carnally intimate with that man, is all I can think to myself smugly, and a sudden sex-flashback barges into my mind's eye, making me feel faintly dizzy.

I watch him knowing he doesn't know I'm awake, as he moves quietly with graceful strength through the room, not waning to disturb me, and something inside me stirs.  
Oh God I want him.  
I want him again. I want him right now.  
I am greedy for him, too much is not enough. He's turned me into a raging nymphomaniac.

I move, lifting my head up a little. Brett sees me, turns and pauses.  
"What'cha;" He flashes a boyish smile, looking all coy. Deceptively so, in fact he looks so innocent even I am having a hard time believing that this is the same man who just a short while ago had me making noises I didn't know I was capable of making.  
And just like that, suddenly I feel shy. Which is silly I know.

"Hey." I manage casually, returning the smile.

He walks over to the bed and stands looking down at me over his lovely pointy nose. "A funny thing just happened. I forgot to bring the milk in this morning, so I've just been out for it and I was confronted by five Japanese girls outside the door with cameras....they're going to have some really flattering photos of me!" He cackles, evidently thoroughly amused at the thought.

"I'm sure you've made their day." I giggle, and move over so he can sit down on the edge of the bed.  
Only he climbs right back into the bed, diminishing the likelihood of getting up and going anywhere anytime soon, as he drapes his arm around me and I snuggle into his side.

He still smells amazing, even after a few hours since showering and having worked up quite a sweat with our repeated sex sessions.  
I decide in that moment that I wouldn't mind living in his armpit, close to his heart, tucked away safely, protected from all evil things the world might want to throw at me.  
Clearly I'm addicted to Brett's particular mix of cologne, body wash, deodorant and pheromones.

I tilt my head back to gaze up at him dreamily and his eyes immediately latch onto mine. The hairs at the nape of my neck immediately stand to attention.

Those eyes....those lips.....that face....

Heady waves of attraction pulsate through my body, and I'm all at once transported back to that first brief conversation we'd shared the night when I was watching Blur on stage.  
If only I had been honest with myself then and not so blinkered, I would have practically seen the electricity arc between us.  
I see it now, and boy do I feel it.  
As does Brett, I can see the recognition in his beautiful sky-blue eyes.

Koala-Brett is now back with full force, and....hallelujah....he is still naked under the kimono!

His lips find mine and we're locked together in a passionate clinch, hands everywhere, bare legs tangling together.  
My body is no longer heavy with sleep. My limbs tingle with excitement, anticipation and arousal, as he slips out of the robe. The skin-on-skin contact is electrifying, and a small, high-pitched whimper escapes my lips.

Merciful heaven, I know I told Jane I'd be back soon and that was hours ago but suddenly that's not a good enough reason to get up. I'm exactly where I want to be.  
I must sound like a terrible daughter, but there is nothing in London I want to see other than one thing, and he's wrapped around me, nuzzling into my neck.

"You're insatiable." I gasp delightedly, then hurriedly add. "I'm not complaining though. Not at all. Far from it!"

"Good, I'm glad to hear it." His voice slows to it's lusty drawl. "We've got a lot of lost time to make up for."

"Mm....but it's not as if you've lived a life of celibacy is it?" 

Me and my big mouth, I just can't help myself. 

"Well, no....but none of the others were you, Sammy." He whispers, between feathery kisses.

I swallow hard and immediately tense. "Others?" 

Ah.  
I feel like I've just been winded and my stomach drops, guts churning with jealousy. Even though I know I'm being completely irrational.  
He'd wrongly believed that I had ignored his letters, so what did I expect? He was hardly going to keep carrying an enormous torch for me, and stagger around his tour bus weeping.

"Has there been many then?" I hear myself ask.  
I try to sound breezy but he instantly stills. I shrug my shoulders in a so-what manner, but it doesn't fool him for one second.  
Perceptive sod.  
"It's alright Brett, I know there must've been bus-loads of women. You could probably have your own harem in fact."

"There's been.....a few." He admits somewhat reluctantly. "But I ain't no Casanova. It was just sex now and then, and I swear it wasn't with that many. You know how I feel about casual sex, it isn't meaningful, so it always made me yearn for something more. Something deeper. Something special."

"So, that's when you started seeing Anick? You found something more with her? Something special?"

"Not especially. What about you though? You can't tell me you've been on your own since we...." His voice trails off, unable to find the words. We didn't exactly break up. But I understand his meaning perfectly well.

"I dated one guy from college that's all, very casually." I know I'm being immature now, treating this like some sort of competition. "I only slept with him one time, and to be honest it made me feel sick."

He smiles but he isn't happy. "That bad, ay?"  
I glare at him, and he knows he's said absolutely the wrong thing by attempting to make a joke.  
"Sorry Sammy. That was insensitive."

"Yes it was, because I broke it off soon after and do you know why?"  
I pause deliberately and he obligingly shakes his head, clearly stumped.  
"Because it didn't feel right. I wanted it to be you. I couldn't get over you, I couldn't imagine ever being able to fall in love with anyone else. Unlike you!"

He sits back, looking deflated. Like a hot air balloon that's lost all air and heat. "Sammy, please. There's nothing to feel insecure about. It's you I love."

"But you also said you love her." I pull the quilt up way over my chin as if it's a comfort blanket. "I know you said you wasn't IN love with her, but you did love her. Which must mean you still do-"

"No it was never that sort of love. I'm in love with you, so any love I felt for her just wasn't the same!" His voice rises, sounding hurt, and he cuts me off quickly. "There was an affection, a fondness perhaps, but it was nothing like what we have. You have to believe that."

My heart squeezes, wrenches in on itself, I feel so confused.  
I know how I feel about Brett, but what if he's just confused about his feelings for me?  
I take a deep breath. "I want to, Brett....I really do."

"But?"

Crap. I know what I want to say. I want to ask him what we are doing.  
I want nothing more than to just live in the moment. Not to worry about how things will work out and what everything means.  
But that is not me, and I'm no one if I'm not me.

This is the man I fell hook, line and sinker for three years ago, and it shook me to the very core. I thought I knew myself. I naively and stupidly thought I had a 'type' until he came along and turned my little world upside down with his winking, leather jacket and floppy fringe.  
I didn't think I was good enough for him. I couldn't believe that someone like him could find me attractive or interesting, and it took a huge leap of faith to become romantically involved with him.  
Then no sooner did I have him, when I lost him, and now I'm struck by a deep, paralysing fear of what could possibly happen to us.

It has not completely escaped my mind that he is still just freshly out of a serious long-term relationship. In fact it is so fresh, his girlfriend doesn't even know that it's over yet!  
I trust Brett, as in I trust our friendship.  
But emotions and feelings are complex, and rarely come in neat, easy to understand packages.  
The idea that Brett is just seriously mixed up has found it's way into a deep, dark part of my mind and made itself cosy there.

"Sammy." He says, looking stricken with dread. "What is it? Just tell me, please."

I tug the quilt away from my mouth, as it's making it hard for me to breath. "I trust you Brett, but what if you were just sad, vulnerable and hurting? Anick hasn't treated you well, and I'm worried that now I'm here maybe you're just feeling sentimental. I don't know. What if you're getting our friendship-love mixed up with real love?"

"Is that what you really think is happening here?" He asks, his voice calm but tinged with steel, and it just breaks me. "Even now, even after what we discussed, not to mention what we've done, you're still doubting me?"

Poor Brett.  
I know I must sound like a broken record.  
First there was Justine, and now there's Anick to be paranoid about.  
I don't want to feel this way, but I can't help how I feel.

"I don't mean to, I really don't. It's because I'm so scared of losing you. It all seems too good to be true, and I just know that something or someone will mess everything up." 

It's as if a cloud passes over his eyes, then they clear. He looks at me, upset. "Sammy, if you can't at least try to get passed your fears then the only person who's going to mess things up between us....is you. Without trust, there's nothing. You can't build a relationship on doubt."

I feel vaguely nauseated by his words, and I want to sink into a deep, dark hole. A multitude of emotions are welling-up inside, and suddenly they seem to be begging to be let out.  
I don't want to cry again. I've done so much crying these past few days. And I'm such an ugly crier.

"Look at me." His tone is gentle but commanding, making it impossible for me to refuse. "It's not going to be easy, I know. I never said nor thought it would be. There's the distance and our busy lives-"

"Your life is far busier than mine!" I squeak defensively, turning all competitive again. Emotions are choking me up and scrambling my brain.

"I'll have the usual band commitments, yeah.." He states gently. "...but you'll be busy studying at Uni, and whose to say you won't fall for some other bloke on your course? It's always a possibility, but I won't be ruled by fear. You've got to make the most out of life. So let's not throw the towel in before we've even had a chance, Please."

I am crying now, and roughly brush the tears away.  
They're just silently, slowly seeping out of me like sap from a cut on a tree.  
I know he is right, and I'm so incredibly frustrated with myself for my dithering.  
I couldn't possibly give up on us.  
How could I throw away the chance of such happiness? We could be the greatest love story, yet here I am already unwittingly sabotaging our future together, afraid of falling before we've hardly even left the ground.

I need to pull myself together and as Brett said, have the guts to trust and to love wholeheartedly, without worrying about all the possible disastrous outcomes.  
Even though my logic screams it's impossible, my mind tells me it's risky, and my instinct advise me to be cautious....my heart keeps on whispering to take a chance.

"Of course I'm going to give us a chance. I love you, Wolfie! And if you honestly think I'd be interested in any other man, either at Uni or anywhere else for that matter, then you need certifying!"

Brett looks visibly relieved as he leans back against the headboard, and reaches for a cigarette.  
"I love you." He says, rubbing my arm comfortingly with his free hand. "We will make this work. You just need to have a little faith in me, yeah?"

I sit up, taking the lit cigarette from his mouth and take a long drag on it. "I will, scouts honour!"

He strokes my hair and laughs, and with his sweet gesture and lovely laugh an entire ocean of complications and what ifs and oh my Gods just seem to float away.

I hand the cigarette back to him, and then the smile on his lips melts away.  
Oh dear.  
Serious Brett.

Now what?

I'm just about to ask him what's wrong, although I'm fearful of speaking and waking up monsters that were never meant to open their eyes, when suddenly he speaks.

"Listen, just in case you're still in any doubt whatsoever about how strongly I feel for you, then you ought to know that..." He pauses, visibly colouring. ".....that song I was working on earlier today, I wrote it for you. It's all about you. Well, us really. Even though I began writing it before we'd ever got together."

I've been sitting up straight, but now I sway, feeling as if I've had all the air knocked from my lungs. I cover my mouth with my hand, shocked.  
But it's nice shock.

"So, what I'm trying to tell you is I've been in love with you for a very very long time. I just want to be there for you everyday. I want to take care of you, and enjoy life with you. I want to make love to you, and love you with every fucking fibre of my being."  
He reaches out and takes hold of my hand, which has been clasped over my mouth.  
"I will do anything in my power to make you happy, Sammy. To keep you safe, and to keep you as you are. You've always been perfect to me. I just want you. Everything about you. I want it all."

I breath in, trying to catch my breath. I feel irrepressible joy bubble up inside my chest, making my throat constrict.  
My heart is swelling, bursting, it has a life of its own. A renewed life.

He stubs the cigarette out in an already overflowing ashtray, then I'm not sure what happens next because I am too busy kissing him, I'm too busy grabbing him, and holding onto him for dear life.

I shower him with kisses, and tell him I love him over and over again. There's no other words I can think of, but they seem perfectly adequate, as his grin is so wide it makes me want to sob with happiness.  
I wrap my arms around his neck and fall backwards onto the soft mattress, pulling him down with me, wanting the full, solid weight of his body on top of me.

"I don't want to crush you." He smiles, humour lacing his voice.  
I can tell he's still holding back, resting on his forearms somewhat, which are up by my head.

"I want you to crush me." I reply, the words barely making it passed my throat.

He chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving mine, and then leans down and kisses me. The kiss is soul-deep and sizzling with passion. We breath as one, inhaling each other.  
The next thing I know we are moving, sitting up, and he's pulling me onto his lap. All decency goes out of the window, as I feel the quilt fall away and I'm suddenly overcome with self-consciousness.

I might be straddling Brett's slim waist, but I make a last ditch attempt to maintain a shred of modesty by subtly pressing myself into his chest, so that my breasts and less-than-toned stomach won't be visible to him.  
As per usual though, I'm sure the clever sod can read my mind.  
His large hands move to my waist, sliding up my sides and gently tug me back.

"Stop trying to hide. You never have to hide yourself from me." He whispers hoarsely between kisses. "Let me see you. I want to see all of you."

How could I ever deny this man anything? God help me.  
Begrudgingly I stop resisting and allow him to move me back, even though I'm struggling to understand how he could possibly find the sight of my not-so-perky boobs attractive.  
He rips his mouth away from mine with a gasp, seemingly so he can admire my, um, assets, and I have to fight the urge to cover myself with my arms.

"I'm sure you've seen nicer." I say, because self-deprecation is what I do best. "So please, do you have to look at me so closely?"

"I know you have hang ups, sweet. So do I. But there's nothing wrong with you. Your imperfections are beautiful to me."

Could this man be any more perfect? I'm sure there must be a law against it.  
But then the first part of what he said dawns on me. Did I hear him correctly?  
"You have hang ups?" I blurt incredulously. "Are you mad? Do you not look in the mirror? The one in your bathroom is bigger than the universe so it can't have escaped your attention that you're an absolute Adonis!"

"Shuuut up!" He laughs, visibly embarrassed now by my outspoken adoration.

But there's not a chance of me shutting up. I'm only just getting started, and I don't need any drugs to aid me in going off on a rambling tangent regarding Brett's astonishing beauty.

"I'm not joking Brett. If you visit Greece they'll most likely build a temple in your honour. Somewhere for people to go and worship statues of you, and leave offerings and stuff. Seriously though, why would you have any hang ups?"

"Because I am only human I'm afraid." He states, matter-of-factly. "I'm certainly no Greek God. Have you never noticed my legs?"

"Your legs? Mm, yes. They're gorgeous...so what about them?" I instinctively try to swivel around so I can take a closer look, but he doesn't let me.

"When I was younger I was in a motorbike accident, it left my legs in tatters and I have the scars to prove it. I've always been a bit self-conscious about them, but I've learned to live with them. They don't define who I am. They serve as a reminder that I survived."

I swallow hard, absorbing this revelation. My heart aches with sorrow for him, but is overpowered by the deepest admiration and respect.  
He's incredible.  
Loving this man is the easy part. Finding the words to express how deeply, is impossible.

Overcome with the need to reassure him, I tenderly trace my fingers down his face, and he leans into my touch.  
"I'm so sorry, that's truly terrible. But the scars, I've never even seen them and I've spent enough time ogling your legs, believe me. Even if they were that noticeable though, I still love them just as much as I love your smile, because they're part of you."

He smiles and it shows in his eyes, which seem to glow with happiness. "And what about this?" He jabs at his nose now with a long finger. "I broke that too, and I hate the way that it twists my face into a sort of....ferrety mask."

"Oh please." I say haltingly, and just to make my point I lean forward and kiss the tip of it. "Again, hardly noticeable. You're the most beautiful man in the world."

"I'm really not." He shakes his head, but still gives me an appreciative squeeze.

"Yes you are! I'm not even kidding, you're so pretty I want to cry."

Brett rolls his eyes. "My point is, we all have hang-ups. You're self-conscious about your body, when there's absolutely no need to be."

"There is though. I mean, look at me. Actually ugh no, don't! Why would you want to?" I shudder.

He sighs with exasperation, as if I can't understand why I am being so dense. "Why on earth would I not want to? You're beautiful. And there's no need to be so shy, it's not as if I haven't seen you before."

Ugh.  
He has a point.  
As embarrassing as it is to remember, in the wild state of abandon I hadn't cared about my nakedness. There had even been one point where I'd found myself upside down and half hanging out of the bed. 

"Yes well, it's different when you're in the middle of....things." I croak, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "You don't really stop to think about it."

"In the middle of things? I'm talking way before today, sweet. I'll never forget that see-through dress you wore when we had lunch up on the Heath. You, temptress!"

Wait, what did he just say?

"I can't believe you're bringing that up!" I cringe at the shrill note to my voice, but I'm in a state of disbelief so I deserve to be forgiven. "I didn't even realise you could see through it, otherwise I wouldn't have worn it!"

"Yeah? And there's me thinking you were being a tease. Well it raised more than just my eyebrow, I can tell you."

It doesn't feel like he's poking ten shades of fun out of me. He's wearing that devilish grin that makes him look far more naughty than nice, which serves as a reminder (not that I need one) that despite being the sweetest guy in the world, Brett is also without a doubt, a red-blooded male capable of lusting and leering.....even at little old me.

"You...you...pervert!" I say jokily, and mock-punch him in the arm because I'm blushing ferociously and I don't know how else to handle this type of situation.  
It's one I've never found myself in before. Especially with Brett.

"What?" He asks innocently, making a big show of screwing up his face and rubbing the spot where I barely touched him. "I couldn't exactly help noticing could I? I'm not blind! Also, just for the record.....you have fantastic tits, Sammy. So you're wrong actually. I haven't seen nicer."  
Then just because they are right there in front of him, Brett doesn't seem able to stop himself from covering my breasts tenderly with his large hands, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples.

I choke back a gasp and almost swallow my tongue.  
His bold statement and his sensual ministrations starts off a little configuration, so all my nerve endings begin to tingle, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head where it feels like all my hair, which has been tousled and tugged on, is standing on end.

"I've never met anyone who blushes as much as you do." He notes, his eyes brazen and alive as they rove over me, before scaling back up my face. "And it's even more endearing now that I know you blush all over....and I mean, all over."

"Y-you...are bad. Very very bad-" My words are lost against his sinful lips, as he catches me off guard with another kiss.

I can't describe how wonderful Brett's mouth feels.  
Tender but demanding, playful but fierce, and I don't ever want to stop kissing him.  
His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I can feel him hard and needy, pressing against the centre of my body.

Oh, hello. I think to myself  
...Helloooo...

I've had more sex today than I've had in my entire life, but I'm more than happy to go again, even if it damn near kills me.  
What a way to go.

Is this what it feels like to be desired? To be cherished and cared for? To give and to take in equal measures? Measures that cannot be measured anymore.  
I am overwhelmed by him.  
I'm not naive, not anymore. But somehow, being with Brett makes me feel as if it is all brand new.  
Brand new, exciting, but not scary.

Our tongues tangle, my hands grasp onto his shoulders, and his arms tighten around my waist, guiding my movements. He wants me as much as I want him, and we're both temporarily lost to the wild, raw beauty of what we're doing to each other.  
It's incredibly sensual and erotic, teasingly delaying the inevitable, prolonging that sweet anticipation which almost drives me to the edge of insanity.

But the sexual tranquility of the moment is interrupted by the sudden sound of the telephone trilling in the living room.  
At first we both ignore it, as if we don't hear anything, silently hoping whoever it is will just go away. But on and on it goes, so I am reluctantly forced to break the kiss, and halt our actions.

"Hadn't you better get that? It might be important." I rasp.

Brett groans in protest as I lift myself off his lap, and don't get me wrong, it takes enormous effort to do so. But there might be some sort of rock 'n roll emergency, urgently requiring his attention.

"Yeah I suppose so. They're not bloody giving up are they?" He grumbles, then climbs from the bed completely naked and in all his glory, and starts toward the door.

The man has no shame.

My mouth goes dry as I look on with wide eyes that are glued to him.  
I manage to swallow, letting out a slow breath and stay sitting right where I am, unable to move.  
I will never ever get used to the sight of him naked.  
Ever.

Holy fuuuuuuck.  
I think I'm going to have to lay down.

I hear the rumble of his voice echoing through the wall as he speaks on the phone, and then a moment later he calls out to me.

I scramble up, and grab the first thing that comes to hand - which is the kimono - because regardless of Brett's reassurance, I'm neither brazen or brave enough to stride around naked like him, no matter how much he claims to like my 'tits'.

I hurry into the room and when he sees me in the robe, which has been hastily thrown on, he raises a dark eyebrow at me and smiles a smile that manages to be dirty and sweet at the same time.  
"It's for you." He says quietly, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. "It's Jane."

Oh bloody hell.  
How did she even get his number?

Reluctantly I take the phone from him. "Hello?" I manage through clenched teeth. Trying to pretend there isn't a fully naked Brett hovering close by, distracting me and making me drool.

"Sammy! I did 1471 on the phone, as you were the last person to call. Your father was beginning to worry, he's rung twice to see if you were back. I actually fibbed and told him you were. If I hadn't he would've shut the shop early and gone in search of you. You know what he's like." My stepmother prattles on. "I had a feeling you'd still be at Brett's, not that I blame you dear......so....." She pauses expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well? What's Happening between you two? Have you cleared the air yet? Though I must say surely you can't have spent all this time talking. Is there something you need to tell me?" She asks in a loud, excited whisper.

"No! Um, well maybe....I mean-"

"Oh for goodness sake, Samantha! Stop gibbering." 

"Look, I'll speak to you properly when I get there. Okay? And I wasn't gibbering!" 

Brett has sidled up behind me, which is making it extremely difficult to concentrate on what she's saying.  
"You were gibbering a bit." His voice is a whisper by my ear, and I jump slightly.

"What's that, Sam?"

"Nothing Jane, listen I'll talk to you soon. I'll be there shortly."

I hear her scoff into the phone. "Well I shan't hold my breath, you said that over four hours ago."

"Yes I know I did but something came up..." My words fade away as Brett chuckles behind me like a naughty school boy.

I half-turn and see him give me a sidelong glance with a hint of raised eyebrow, which does things to parts of me that I'm sure are still recovering.  
"You're a very bad man." I hiss, unable to keep the smile from my lips.

"Um, didn't I once tell you I'm a badly behaved gentleman?" He teases. "You've yet to find out how bad I can really be."

Oh sweet baby Jesus, he smells so good and I can feel myself burning up at his words. Even though he's being playful, my stomach cramps with lust.

Then I remember poor Jane, just as Brett makes a grab for me. I gently shove him on the chest, but he pulls me into him and jokingly smacks me on the arse.  
I let out a startled little yelp, and almost drop the phone. He wraps a strong arm around me, and I wriggle against him, suppressing a giggle.

"Sam? What was that? What's going on?" Jane's well-to-do voice demands.

"N-nothing.....Brett just, I mean...Brett was-"

He leans over my shoulder wearing a big, cheeky grin and speaks directly and clearly into the receiver, answering for me. "Brett was just smacking Sammy's bum.....Sorry, Jane."

A surprised laugh bursts out of my mouth, and it takes a few moments for me to compose myself. "Er, yes. Brett was being a daft arse, but I am leaving now Jane, okay? I'll be with you soon."

"No rush." Jane says now, having done a complete 360, and I can practically hear the grin in her tone. "You enjoy yourself.....but you must tell me everything when you get back, yes? And I mean, everything!"

 

*****************************************

 

We leave the house soon after, somehow managing to resist the strong temptation to get it on again. There was some heated moments with Brett getting a bit frisky as we got dressed, so I'm proud of us for setting off within the hour.

We walk back across the Heath to where I left my car, Brett claiming my hand in his.  
The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. But the world feels so dreamlike, magical and surreal. It's like slipping into a wonderful dream that you never want to wake from.....except it's really happening.

I'm with Brett.  
Brett and I are officially an item again, and everything else just seems to dissipate, leaving only us.

No one has ever made me feel the way Brett makes me feel. And I've always known in my heart of hearts they never could.  
Of course there are sides to him I still don't completely know, and many parts of him I don't quite understand. But it doesn't matter.  
It is those blank spaces that make me want to be closer, and what makes me feel so comfortable around him.

 

I decide that it's probably for the best that he doesn't accompany me to my dad's. I don't think that either of us are ready for that just yet.  
Jane would lose her mind, me walking in with him, and I wouldn't like to speculate what my father's reaction would be, should he arrive home and find Brett in his living room.  
Although he didn't hold any grudges against Brett after my getting ill in Manchester, he didn't take his supposed abandonment of me afterwards so well.  
He was seriously, and quite lengthily pissed off by it. Which is quite natural. In his eyes, a charming, gigalo rock star broke his daughter's heart, and he made no secret of how he thought Brett deserved to have his manly bits crushed slowly in a vice. He deemed that a fitting punishment. 

There had been a time, when I might've been inclined to agree.  
Thankfully though, for both our sakes, that never happened and they are still in fine working order.

Because circumstances have taken such a rapid turn, I will need to explain things to dad properly, and give him time to process these developments.  
I only hope he'll believe Brett's claims about having written to me.  
The suspicious disappearance of those letters still has me mystified, and even though Brett has urged me to leave it in the past, it's still bothering me quite a lot.

 

Brett has kindly supplied me with road-by-road directions, written in his notepad, along with a roughly drawn map of how to get from Highgate to Camden.  
Luckily for me, he is no stranger to Kentish Town, having played the pub circuit round there back in Suedes' early days.

However, there is also another, far less savoury, association he has with Camden...

Anick.

She lives in the Gospel Oak area of the Borough, and I agree (with a heavy heart) to his request to drop him off there along the way. 

His reasoning is honourable.  
He wants to speak to her face-to-face, and break the news that their turbulent relationship is now over, but I'm deeply concerned that him calling time on their love affair might lead to her breaking him....like, physically break him.  
All joking aside, I am genuinely concerned for his safety.

"It'll be fine. I know how to handle her outbursts. Don't worry." He tells me for what seems like the hundredth time.

And for the hundredth time I respond in the same way...  
"How can you expect me to not worry? I've seen her in action, Brett. She's emotionally unstable. Why do you have to meet her in person?"

"I've already said, I can't break up with her over the phone." He replies patiently. "That just seems so heartless. I at least need to sit her down and explain everything. Is that alright?"

I dart a look at him as we drive through the leafy, suburban streets of North west London.  
In the daylight, his hair seems somehow darker than it used to be. It's more dark chocolate than milk chocolate, but it suits him and really emphasises the blueness of his eyes.  
He looks a bit tired though. He has the ghosts of dark circles under his eyes. The lack of sleep last night and today must've gotten to him.  
He might be practically nocturnal these days, but even creatures of the night have to grab sleep through the daytime.  
All the excitement of the day, sexual or otherwise, has kept him mostly awake.

He looks at me now, still awaiting an answer. It's like he's asking for my permission, and I have to quickly return my focus back to the road. I wish he wouldn't give me those looks, they make me die.  
In a nice way. 

"Okay." I nod stiffly. I don't see that I really have any other choice.  
He does have a point I suppose.  
Being unceremoniously dumped over the telephone isn't kind, and Brett isn't that type of guy.

 

I pull over into a lay-by and he climbs out rather ungracefully, which is out of character for him but it can't be helped due to the length of his legs and the tiny proportions of my little car. He sort of has to do it in stages, looking like a newborn gazelle.

"I'll see you about seven then, yeah?" He confirms with a warm, bright smile.

By mutual agreement we have arranged for him to meet me at my dad's later.  
Tonight we are going on our first ever REAL date, and the prospect of this, along with his genuine enthusiasm, makes me brighten immediately.  
I am the happiest, luckiest, woman alive and I won't let Anick spoil things.  
Brett is right, everything will be fine.  
I trust him.

"Definitely! I can't wait." I flash him a sincere smile of my own, and before heading off he winks at me, which causes butterflies to swirl in my stomach.  
I hadn't realised just how much I've missed that sensation until now.

 

By the time I arrive at dad and Jane's place, I'm practically floating on a cloud.  
Actually, I wish I were floating, because climbing the stairs to their maisonette proves far more difficult than it should be.  
How can I put this nicely?  
Well, there is no way of putting it nicely....

I am paying now for my sexual exploits.

I push open the door to the living room, and stick my head around it, hoping to get away with a quick greeting. "Hey, it's only me. I'm just going to take a shower."

However it would appear Jane has other ideas, and she quickly scuppers my efforts to skulk off into the bathroom. "Wait a minute young lady!" She leaps up from the hideous floral armchair looking like she's been poked with a cattle-prod. "You're not getting out of it that easily, I've been on tenterhooks all day. Sit yourself down, I want to know all that's gone on."

"All?" I say, without thinking. 

She clasps her hands together excitedly, the gold bracelets that adorn her wrists rattling like a round of applause.  
It's like I'm receiving a standing ovation for having finally shagged Brett Anderson.

"Ooooh! You got it together didn't you?" She squeals, with unabashed delight, and now she's rounding on me, steering me through the room and into the kitchen.

"Are you quoting from a Barry White song?" I frown, but she's not going to be deterred. She's a woman on a mission.

"There's no point in trying to play the innocent with me, Samantha. I'm a woman of the world. Tell me! What happened?"

"Well obviously you've guessed what happened." I say dryly, as I lower myself gingerly onto the hard wooden kitchen chair and do my best not to wince. "So you might at least let me have a shower and freshen up before you start the inquisition."

"So you did, you know.....end up getting down to it after all?" She gushes, and I begin to shrivel inwardly with embarrassment.

"Ugh...yes Jane, sex happened. Lots of sex. Are you happy now?"

Without a word of a lie, the woman raises her arm and punches the air with her fist.  
"Yes!" She exclaims loudly, and I half expect her to demand a high-five.

I'm not sure that such a rapturous response constitutes as normal parental behaviour. But then again Jane has become more of a friend than a stepmother, and she's been through this with me since day one. She's genuinely thrilled for me which is strangely touching, and I feel a grin split my face as my embarrassment lifts.

I wouldn't be surprised if she put an announcement in the local newspaper at this rate.

"Go, go and have your shower!" She shoos me out just as animatedly as she dragged me in. "Then you can tell me all about it, before your father comes home!"

Yes.  
Can't exactly sit discussing the finer points of rock star sex when my dad is around. I mean, can you imagine it?...  
'Oh hey dad, Jane and I were just talking about how Brett jumped my bones this afternoon. Yeah, screwed each other senseless we did....'

Cringe.

I have my insulin shot, then take a long hot shower which soothes some of my aches and tender spots.

It's a bit awkward not having a bedroom of my own anymore, so afterwards I toss on Jane's spare bathrobe and pad down the hall back into the living room.

As I anticipated, Jane is eagerly awaiting me on the sofa.  
Dressed in yoga pants, there's a Spirit & Destiny magazine open on her lap and a glass of dry white wine on the coffee table.  
The portable TV is on, and she glances over at it, engrossed in the current news before I divert her focus.

I grin. Always doing two things at once, that's Jane.

She pours me a glass of wine, just a small one to 'celebrate', as I join her, and then she sits riveted for the next twenty minutes as I divulge the details - well, I'm mindful to leave out the more intimate ones - to her, about what has taken place between Brett and I.

"I've always known it." She says smugly, as I finish. "It's always been blindingly obvious that he's completely smitten with you."

"I really don't know how you could reach that conclusion, given the fact that I didn't hear from him after he left Manchester." I point out, darkly. "Although, that wasn't his fault. I still can't understand how all of those letters got lost in the post. It just isn't possible, there's got to be more to it."

Jane hesitates, and I see a knowing look flicker across her neat features. It's barely noticeable, but I notice it, and her haste to steer away from the subject only arouses my suspicions further.

"Yes well, Brett is right. You need to both look to the future and not back. Whatever's gone on in the past shouldn't matter now. You've found each other again, that's all that matters."

I frown at her and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Jane, do you know something about the letters?"

"Hm?" 

She's deliberately stalling for time now, pretending she hasn't heard me, so it will buy her time to think up an appropriate response.  
But I know she heard me just fine, and I fix her with my most steeliest stare, letting her know that I know, and she isn't fooling me for one second.

"Oh, Sam.....I don't know what to say." She throws her hands up dramatically and shakes her head. "I don't know anything for certain-"

"But you do know something!" 

She sighs, looking deeply troubled and I'm literally on the edge of my seat now, pressing her for more information.  
My head and my heart are both racing, and all my muscles have gone tense.

"Jane, please tell me! What do you know?"

Her expression is a strange mix of awkwardness and guilt, and I have this horrible dreadful feeling deep within the pit of my stomach. Judging by her reluctance to divulge, I'm not sure I even want to know.

But I have to.

"You need to ask your father about it." She says finally, carelessly pouring herself another glass of wine like she desperately needs it, and almost spilling it in the process.

"Why? Oh my god, does he know something about it?"

"I swear to you Samantha, I don't know the details. I wouldn't lie to you. See, this is why I didn't want to mention anything! You're having a fabulous day and now you're going to get yourself all worked up, and it'll put you in a bad mood-"

"I'm already well on my way to being in a bad mood, Jane. In fact I'm well sodding passed that point because you're keeping something from me, and you know how important this is to me! Just tell me, please! Tell me what my dad has to do with those missing letters?"

She slowly opens her mouth and yet no sound comes out, but whilst she's being still and eerily silent, a noise from the hallway gains my attention.  
There's a slight delay as the door slowly opens, and you could hear a pin drop in the room, even though it's carpeted.

"Nothing. I had absolutely nothing to do with Brett's letters disappearing...."

Neither of us heard my dad arrive home, and now he's standing in the doorway looking notably shamefaced.  
I whirl around, immediately glaring at him. And if I could shoot lasers out my eyes, in that moment I probably would have.

But as he speaks again, a rather large chunk of my little world comes crashing down around my ears...

 

".....It wasn't me....it was your mother."


	21. Learning To Be

"Mum?" I cry incredulously, as I stare at my father askance.

He must be mistaken. He has to be, surely to goodness.

But as he sheepishly lifts his eyes, there's something in his downcast expression that causes an unsettling doubt to quell in the pit of my stomach, making me feel a bit ill. And suddenly I'm not so sure.

"She thought it was for the best, love. In the long run." He says gravely.

And now I'm on my feet, I don't think I even intended to stand up but it's like I'm not in control of my own movements. "What do you mean? Are you.....are you saying she kept the letters from me?"

"Yes....I'm afraid she did."

Oh God no. This cannot be real. I don't want it to be real.  
Why would my own mother do such a thing? Knowing how much Brett meant to me, HOW could she do such a thing?  
And how could my dad keep it quiet from me?

Finding out that Jane and dad knew about this, only adds insult to injury.  
It's like they've all conspired behind my back. In my eyes, that makes them almost as guilty as my mother. Almost.

Okay, so whilst they misguidedly may have had my best interests at heart, the sense of betrayal cuts me to the quick.  
They're my family.  
At least you sort of expect others to be underhanded and do shady, dodgy shit to you. Life teaches you to expect it.  
But not from your parents.

The thoughtless selfishness of all involved, enrages me. Hurt and anger are boiling in my blood and I wish I had my own room, so I could flounce off like a melodramatic teenager and scream and cry into my pillow.

"But....but you hated Brett over this. You hated him for the longest time. It makes no sense! Why would you hate him if you knew it wasn't his fault?"

Even as I speak a memory of my dad ranting about Brett comes flooding back. I remember it as clear as day.  
During one of his visits up North, he stumbled upon a piece in the Mirror newspaper about Brett taking the time to sign autographs before a concert...  
"Hmf...have you read this shite? He's going on about 'The fans, the fans, the fans'....Well you were his biggest fan, and he threw you away. What an arsehole!"

Dad rubs his face now with his hands, looking monumentally uncomfortable. "Because I didn't know then, Sam. She literally only told me recently, and that was only because she knew you were coming down. The last thing she wanted was for you to bump into him and-"

"And find out the truth!" I yell, but he shakes his head.

"No, that you'd end up back together. I told her she should never have interfered, but she worries that you'll end up getting hurt."

I scoff, having to refrain from laughing without mirth. The hypocrisy is staggering. The irony is unbearable. "The only person who has hurt me, is her. She's hurt me more than he ever could." I say bitterly. "But you know what? It's going to make telling her all the more satisfying!"

I stomp over to the phone before my dad can stop me, and my hands are shaking with temper as I punch at the numbers. I can barely see straight I am so angry. Temporarily blinded by my fury.

"Sam, are you sure this isn't a conversation best saved for when you see your mother?" Jane dares to pipe up. "I think the two of you would benefit from sitting down and having a proper chat, rather than you flying off the handle."

"No, I need to speak to her now." I snap, impatiently drumming my fingers on the telephone table. "She needs to be told. She's no right sticking her nose in, absolutely no-bloody-right!"

Jane nods meekly. "I agree, hon. And you have every right to be angry. But do you really think that-"

I cut her off by rudely raising a hand to silence her, as I hear the tell-tale sound of the phone being picked up at the other end, followed by my mother's voice. "Hello?"

And suddenly I don't know what to say or where to begin. The words seem to get stuck in my throat, which is tightening as I almost choke on the pain I am feeling.

"Hello?" She asks again, a little less patiently this time.

"Mum....did you..." I stop myself, no that's not right. I know she did. "...mum, why did you keep Brett's letters from me?" I blurt out.

Silence.

I close my eyes, and try to steady my breathing before continuing. "I know you didn't give them to me, what I don't get is why....why would you do that to me? Mum, you....you know how much he means to me-"

"Means? Are you saying that you still have feelings for him, even now after all this time?"  
I hear the surprise in her voice, and it takes everything in me not to hurl the phone at the wall in a childish fit of temper. 

"Yes! I've never stopped loving him, mum. And he's still in love with me."

"I take it you've seen him then?" She huffs, and I'm floored by her gall.  
Anyone would think I was madly in love with Hannibal Lecter, the way she's carrying on.  
"Sam, I only did what I thought was necessary in order to protect you."

"Protect me from what? Getting hurt? That wasn't your call to make, and besides all you've done is hurt me! You couldn't just let me make my own choices could you? You had no right, mum!"

"Sam, I would never want to hurt you. But you were so young. I didn't realise he meant so much to you. I thought maybe it was just a phase you were going through."

"Would it have made any difference? I don't think it would, you know. I haven't outgrown him, it wasn't just a fickle crush. And I wasn't a child!" My voice raises erratically, wobbling with emotion.

"No, but you were naive and impressionable. Once you met him you developed insecurities about your weight, you even made yourself dangerously ill. You changed your looks for him. That is why I thought you'd be better off not being involved with someone like that." 

I swallow hard, forcing down the tennis ball-sized lump in my throat. "That was my doing, not his. I was a complete idiot and I learned the hard way. Brett didn't want me to change, I was just too stupid to think he could want me the way I was. But mum, I know better now, he loves me...all of me, for who I am."

I hear an audible sigh. "So he says. They're all the same his sort. These rockstar types. I bet he says that to all the women who've fallen for him!"

I suck in my cheeks, feeling as if a herd of stampeding wildebeest have just trampled me into the ground.  
Her blatant scepticism and complete disregard for my feelings incenses me to the point of blistering, incandescent rage. 

"Oh my God! Why do you have to be so bloody negative and judgemental?" I rake my free hand through my hair in agitation until it sticks out at frizzy, unruly angles from my head. Making me look demented no doubt. "You don't even know him. You couldn't be more wrong about him, and in time you'll realise that."

"In time? Sam you can't be serious. You don't understand what loving a man like that will do to you. What it's already done."

"No, YOU don't understand." I say assertively. "It's MY life! You don't get to decide how I feel or what I do....I do."

There's a pause as she digests this thoroughly, and I think at last I'm finally getting through to her. My point has well and truly been made.

"Yes, I suppose so." She admits at last, begrudgingly. "I am sorry, if I hurt you. That is the very last thing I ever want to do....perhaps I made a mistake. I misjudged the situation."

"You most certainly did." I rasp, as a sob rises in my throat and I know she hears it.

"Please don't hate me, Samantha.....if I can make it up to you somehow, I will. I can't turn back time, what's done is done, but if I can do anything to make things better....I will."

I take a deep breath. My head is suddenly pounding and it's making it difficult for me to think straight. I feel so emotionally wrung out, like I've been put through one of those old fashioned clothes mangles. "Of course I don't hate you, you're my mum...but you can make things right by.....by giving Brett a chance. You need to accept that I love him"

Another lengthy pause, and I hold my breath. The anticipation is agonising. I need to hear it from her. I need to hear that she'll set aside all the wrong assumptions she's made about Brett.  
About the man I love.  
Maybe then, if she is wholeheartedly willing to give him a fair chance to prove his worth, then I'll be able to forgive the betrayal...the injustice of it all.

"Fine." She answers at last. "Whatever you wish, Sam. If it means it'll make you happy."

I exhale shakily, feeling some of my anxieties lifting.  
She's not exactly jumping for joy or falling over herself, but it's something.

That is, at least it's a start.

 

***************

After the confrontational phone conversation with my mum, I desperately need to offload and hear words of comfort from someone who isn't family.  
I was sorely tempted to call Brett, but as I'd be seeing him soon anyway I don't want to risk bugging the shit out of him by becoming one of those annoyingly clingy, needy girlfriends who can't make it through the day without telephoning their poor, put-upon boyfriend. Especially when said boyfriend has issues of his own enough to deal with at this moment in time.

So I opt for phoning Rae, who is still one of my closest friends and go-to, when I need someone to listen, and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.  
Besides, I know she'll be absolutely dying to know about Brett.

Jane kindly offers to let me use the phone in her and dads bedroom, so I can rant and rave in private.  
I've managed to hold everything in mostly, until I hear Rae's familiar voice at the end of the line, and it all comes spilling out.

Rachel manages to keep silent, listening patiently, only gasping in indignation at regular intervals as I relay the account of my mum's evil deed, the conversation we've had, and how she's promised to make an effort with accepting Brett.  
Which of course then leads onto me having to reveal that Brett and I, are now very much back together.

At first I had intended to be economical with the truth and not go into too much detail....but Rae's uncontainable excitement is contagious, and she ends up yelling into my ear, almost defeating me, "Four times! Four times! Oh. My. God!"

I don't think she's ever going to let that drop.

It seems I spend the entirety of the phone call crying, laughing, hiccuping or blowing my nose. All it takes to get my tear ducts going is either talking about the frustration I feel about the letters being withheld, or the overwhelming elation I feel due to being reunited with Brett.

As expected, Rae is absolutely elated for me and can't resist reminding me that she always knew that Brett and I were made for each other.  
Unlike Becks, she remarks, who has on more than one occasion encouraged me to move on and forget about him by proclaiming "The only way to get over someone is to get under someone else" and "You have to get back up on the horse when it's thrown you to the ground, even when you feel like you've broken every bone in your body."

Gotta love my friends.

I go on to hastily fill Rae in on the torrid encounter with Anick and the way she mistreats Brett, and I can practically envisage Rae shaking her head in disbelief as she says, "What a bitch! Brett is so much better off with you. Lucky for him you came back when you did, she sounds like a total fucking nightmare!"  
She paused for breath, then sniggered triumphantly "Four times....ha! I think that's poetic justice for her being a cheating, abusive cow!" 

 

Yep, just as I thought.  
She'll never let that drop.

So, speaking to Rae has helped me feel much better, and after we've said our goodbyes I begin getting ready for the big date. 

 

****************

I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall, feeling my stomach twist violently with nervous anxiety.  
It's almost eight, and there's still no sign of Brett.

"Why don't you just come and sit down? I'm sure he's on his way. He's probably just been delayed." Jane calls out to me from the living room

But I can't.  
I've resorted to pacing around the kitchen aimlessly. My socked-feet sliding on the cool, smooth, tiled floor whilst drawing in deep, calming breaths. Not knowing what I am doing or where I'm  going, but I'm unable to keep still. 

I need Brett and his calming influence after all the turbulence of this afternoon, but he's not here. And I'm left not knowing what to think.  
There's so many thoughts whizzing through my head. Terrible, unspeakable thoughts such as what if Anick has hurt him? Or what if she's guilted him into not breaking up with her?

Oh God no, please don't let that be the case.

I try to shake off the restless, nervous energy and upset that clings to me like an invisible widows veil.  
If Brett has succumbed to feeling pity for Anick, then I may as well go and throw myself off Tower Bridge right now.  
Not that I would, of course.  
I've never been a very strong swimmer.

But if he's having second thoughts, then the rest of my world will crash and burn around me.  
It's hard to believe that earlier in the day I felt weightless, blissfully happy and unaware as I floated away on cloud number 9. Now it seems I've acquired my own personal thundercloud, and I can just envisage it following me around, complete with occasional angry bolts of lighting raining down on my head.

I'm just toying with the idea of calling his house again, even though I tried fifteen minutes ago and got no response, when suddenly Jane calls out to me again.

"Sam...."

"I'm not sitting down, Jane. I'll only crease my top anyway-"

"Sam, I think he's here!"

"He is?" I rush from the kitchen to find both Jane and my dad out on the tiny balcony that overlooks the small courtyard outside.

"Crikey, what is that soppy young sod up to?" My dad muses aloud, and I practically elbow him out of the way in order to see for myself.

I gaze down and can't quite make sense of what I am seeing.  
Well I'm seeing, but still working on believing, as the three of us watch Brett hauling a motorbike up onto its kickstand. This doesn't go according to plan and takes more than one attempt, resulting in Brett vocalising a string of very ungentlemanly expletives under his breath.

Jane clasps a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle, and I just stand and stare in utter disbelief.  
My dad on the other hand, takes pity on him, being as he's blissfully unaware to the spectators watching his struggle.

"Oi, Romeo....what the heck is this all about?" He calls down to him, making him visibly jump in surprise.

He stares up at us, looking comically startled by our presence. "Oh, erm, What'cha Alan. Good to see you...sorry, this was....well it was supposed to be a bit of a surprise for...for Juliet there." He indicates towards me, and my dad actually laughs raucously then.

Jane waves, as if she's the one Brett is referring to, and something tells me she quite fancies the idea of playing Juliet to his Romeo.  
He smiles nervously, and waves back. "Hello Jane, nice to see you again."

"Always a pleasure seeing you, sweetie." She coos, batting her eyelashes at him furiously. "My, you're looking mighty fine!"

He shifts awkwardly from one heavily-booted foot to the other, and dips his head bashfully. "Um, thanks. Thank you."

"D'you need a hand, fella?" My dad calls down, before Jane can harass him further.

Even from where I'm standing two floors above, I hear him sigh with relief. "Only if it's not too much trouble, Alan. I think the engine has seized up. It conked out on me at Belsize Park....I've had to push the bloody thing all the way up Haverstock Hill."

My dad hums sympathetically, before making his way back inside to fetch his extensive set of tools, the likes of which he keeps solely for moments such as this.  
Ask him to put up a shelf or fix a door hinge and he openly blanches at the mere suggestion.

Jane catches my eye and graciously retreats back inside also, affording Brett and I a moment of privacy.  
Realising I have less than a minute before my dad reaches the courtyard, I lean over the little wrought-iron balcony and hiss at him, "What are you playing at, Wolfie? I was worried sick about you. I was starting to think all sorts of weird shit....but this...well, you've definitely managed to surprise me. I'll give you that."

He makes a pained expression, his soft blue eyes staring up at me all apologetically. "I really am sorry, sweet. I didn't mean to worry you. It was meant to be a cool surprise. Obviously I didn't expect it to go tits-up in such a spectacular way."

"Who's is the bike?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Mine. It was a last minute impulse buy. A mate of mine was flogging it, and I just thought it would make the night memorable." He shrugs and pulls another face. "It's definitely done that. But not in the way I'd intended. Now I've ruined things-"

"Wait! What? You mean you bought that bike....just to take me out on, tonight?" I blink.

He nods reluctantly, looking deflated. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don't ask me why. I s'pose I just wanted to make some special memories before you have to go back home. I didn't even stop to consider what you'd be wearing. I'm such an arse. It's not even practical.....wait, Sammy?"

I hear him call after me but I don't stop. I fly through the living room at break-ankle speed, almost colliding with poor Jane in the process. I gabble a hasty apology, fling open the front door and take the stairs two at a time. Even then my legs don't seem to move as fast as I want them to, my upper body is way in front and I'm at risk of toppling headlong down the stairs.

My dad is outside now, rummaging in a tool bag and yammering on about broken piston rings and crankshafts. I barge passed him, and quite unceremoniously launch myself at an unsuspecting Brett, almost knocking him straight off his feet.

"Bloody hell, steady on girl!" He chuckles, his large hands taking a firm hold of my waist to steady us. He sways slightly but manages to regain his footing, and I notice I've knocked the wind out of him by my overzealous greeting.  
"Be careful, I don't want to get engine oil on you."

Like I'd care. He could pour a full tank of it over my head and I still couldn't be mad at him.

"Sorry, I was just....I mean I'm just.." Words fail me as I gaze up at his handsome visage.  His sapphire blue eyes stare back at me in bewilderment from beneath his dark, arched brows. He has smudges of oil on his face, even on the tip of his nose, and he looks obscenely adorable.

"Is everything alright, sweet?" He's looking at me all worriedly, as I cling on to his sturdy shoulders like I'll never let go. I don't want to let go. 

"Yes....well, no. I mean, it wasn't...I've had a bit of a crappy afternoon to be honest. But now you're here and....oh God, you don't have to be sorry Brett. You're just amazing. This..." I reluctantly relinquish the hold I have on him and gesture towards the broken motorcycle. "...this is such a cool idea. I can't believe you'd go to so much trouble. That's what I love about you. You're so sweet."

It's then I hear my dad cough awkwardly, as if feeling the need to alert us to the fact that he's still in the vicinity, and I know I must be making him feel undoubtedly awkward, gushing over Brett in such a way.

A visible flush dots Brett's cheekbones, turning his pallor uncharacteristically dusky. He's embarrassed also, and it's too damn cute. 

"Well, I've still made a fine mess of things." He clears his throat. "I didn't even have time to go home and change, I didn't want you worrying so I came straight here. And I'd booked us a table at a restaurant as well, but that's all gone out the window."

"Not necessarily." My dad chimes in. He stands and pulls out the keys to his practically brand new, precious Triumph Tiger and throws them towards Brett, who stealthily catches them in one hand. "You can take my bike. But make sure you ride careful, d'you hear? I'm trusting you with my little girl's safety....not to mention that bike is my baby."

Brett stares at the keys, stunned. "You'd let me, borrow your bike? Are you sure?"

My dad waves at him dismissively, as if it's suddenly no big deal at all. When it actually really is. Sometimes it seems he loves that bike more than Jane. "Don't make a fuss. Just get on your way. Go and enjoy yourselves, you deserve it."

I smile warmly at my dad and feel my heart suddenly expand in my chest. His kind gesture of good faith is deeply touching, and I can't refrain from giving him a big, bear hug, which he gratefully accepts.

But it would seem Brett still needs some convincing. "Look at the state of me, though! I can't take you out like this, Sammy. I won't get in a restaurant dressed like this, and besides I wouldn't wanna show you up."

I cast an appreciative glance over his light denim jeans which are fashionably ripped at the knee, his stonking great 18-hole Oxblood Doc Marten boots, leather jacket and white T.shirt that's visibly stained now with oil.  

He's right, he probably won't be allowed into some fancy west end restaurant, but he could never show me up.  
On the contrary, I wish the entire world could see me with him like this. In all his dishevelled glory.  
He's still so strikingly beautiful, and the slightly unkempt look only adds an air of danger and ruggedness to his already potent charisma and sizzling sex appeal.

"I'm not bothered about posh meals, I don't need that with you, Brett." I try to assure him.

He groans and doesn't look convinced. "Sammy, I wanted this night to be special. I could quickly nip home and get washed and changed then-"

"No. Tonight will be special. It already is. And I want you just the way you are.....which is perfect, to me."

 

*******************

 

After a hurried wash in our bathroom sink, and throwing on one of my dads badly fitting T.shirts, Brett feels reasonably comfortable enough to head out for our date.  
I can tell he's still far from happy, as it's not what he had been hoping for, and he's burdened with guilt when my dad waves off his suggestion at leaving his broken Yamaha Tomcat for mechanics to fix.  
What he doesn't realise is, my dad is in his element, and will now thoroughly enjoy his Saturday evening.

But once we've pulled on our respective helmets, and I'm gripping Brett's waist tightly as we speed off, he starts to relax and enjoy himself.

I've ridden pillion on a motorbike before with my dad, many times. Traveling anywhere by motorcycle can be quite a liberating experience at the best of times, unlike the rather mundane affair of driving in typical enclosed automobile. Everything that is felt is enhanced. The sense of smells, sights, and feelings are stimulated to such an extreme that even the familiar seems gloriously strange.  
And with Brett, everything is enhanced tenfold. 

There is nothing that can compare to this.

As we whizz along Kentish Town Road, passed the bustling humdrum of Leicester Square, I feel a sense of inner-peace like I've never known before. It's exciting, thrilling, exhilarating and yet calmingly comforting at the same time, as my inner things hug his outer ones snugly.  
The night air, though not exactly fresh, is free to be greedily absorbed, and is thick and has a consistency of its own. The urban scenery of the city becomes part of us and we become part of the scenery, which creates an overwhelming sense of freedom, as if we have a limitless vision of the world that surrounds us.

By the time we reach the Southbank, I'm pretty hot and sweaty due to the summer heat, and the humidity and helmet have done terrible things to my hair, but I honestly couldn't care less.  
At the risk of sounding painfully cheesy - this night is nothing short of magical.  
The only dampner is when Brett removes his crash helmet, and I notice for the first time now that he's washed away the smears of oil, that he's got a small but visible cut under his left eye and the area beneath it on his cheekbone looks bluey-purple in a certain light. 

"What the hell happened, Brett?" I demand, stopping to examine his injury more closely as we're walking arm-in-arm along the embankment.  
As if I even need to ask. I already know who's responsible, and it makes me furious all over again.

"Please Sammy, don't make a fuss over it....her ring caught me and caused the cut, so it looks worse than it actually is." He explains, shooting me anxious glances as I carefully cup his face in my hand and tilt it from side to side, like I'm examining the damage done to a priceless piece of art.

"She shouldn't have hit you. It's well out of order. I don't care how hurt or angry she is, she shouldn't have done that!"

"Well, it's all over and done with now. I never have to see her again." His expressive face displays the shaming combination of guilt and relief he's evidently feeling, and he confirms this by going on to declare how he never wants to be responsible for making a woman cry ever again.

Though I expect that's impossible. Any female fan who's worth her salt has more than likely been moved to tears by the beautiful lyrics he writes, not to mention his deliverance of them with that God-given voice of his.

"Still. I'd love to get my hands on her." I grumble on unapologetically. "I don't care how feisty she is, I'd take great pleasure in giving her a good slap!"

He shakes his head but smiles. "Violence doesn't solve anything in the long run."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You didn't seem to think so when you took Mark on, remember? And I'm sure you and Damon would've come to blows that time if Jarvis hadn't stepped in and saved the day."

"Well, yeah....that's true." He admits awkwardly. "But I'm not proud of losing it with Damon. Though I do have a confession, we did come to blows after I got back from Manchester."

My eyes widen in shock. "Because of me?" 

My hand finally lets go of his chin, allowing him to nod. "Well, you know what he was like. He got right up in my face, banging on about how I'd 'stolen' you from him....As you can imagine it soon escalated and we got into a bit of a scrap." He forces a nervous laugh. "It's almost funny now looking back, we were both walking around with a shiner afterwards. It's like we had a matching black eye each."

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry, Brett. I really should have ended it with him properly before we went away. I caused so much trouble without meaning to."

He shrugs nonchalantly, and we set off walking again. "Don't be. Are you ever going to stop apologising for things that aren't your fault? There's no need to be sorry, you can't control other people's behaviour. Only your own response to it."

This seems like a good opener to lead onto the topic of my mum, and the subject of the letters she withheld. Though I'm not entirely certain this is a conversation I'm ready to have, but I want to be honest with Brett and open from now on about everything.

I steer him in the direction of the bridge so we can talk properly, and we both lean on the wall looking out across the murky river. Then I take a deep breath, and break the news to him as gently as possible.  
He can be a sensitive guy, and I know he'll take this blow personally. So all I can do is reassure him as much as I can that it is not his fault, and hopefully he'll be able to forgive her interference.

By the time I've finished, his head is resting against his hand, and he's peering down into the depths of the Thames, a sad, almost melancholic expression on his face. He's eerily silent, and it's unsettling.

"Say something, please." I urge, not being able to stand the excruciating silence any longer. "Can you forgive her for what she did? I swear to you, no one will ever come between us again."

Brett raises sorrowful eyes to mine. "If you can forgive her, then it would be churlish of me not to." He tries to say this with icy dignity, but it comes out a bit choked. "She's your mum at the end of the day, so if she thought she was looking out for you, I get that. You know what Blandine is like with me."

I nod, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling him into a hug. "She's promised to give you a chance. If she can't just be happy for me, then I won't be able to forgive her."

"Sammy, the last thing I'd ever want to do is come between you and your mum-"

"I've just said, nothing and no one is going to come between us Brett. You're the most important person to me, you're my world. And I won't let my mum, distance, fame, or any bloody exes get in the way. Never again. Not a chance."

He laughs then, and it's as if his worries are perceptibly lifted from his shoulders. His face visibly brightens, and his tall frame straightens, no longer slumping sadly. "Well, as long as you're sure I'm worth the trouble."

"Oh you definitely are, Wolfie." 

He smiles one of his legendary, heart-stopping smiles, which shows in his eyes, and it knocks the air right out of my lungs. Then he leans down slowly and kisses me fully on the lips.  
The kiss is soul-deep, causing butterflies to swirl pleasantly in my stomach, and waves of attraction pulsate through my body like a tidal wave - defeating in it's intensity.

"Come on then sweet, let's go and have some fun." He grins foxily, as I try to regain my breath.

So we do.

We have the best time.

First we stumble upon a quaint little American style diner that's informal so we don't get turned away for not being dressed appropriately. And I'm thankful that we haven't ended up in some swanky, overpriced restaurant.  
The place is retro, with a 50's theme, and we order veggie burgers and fries whilst playing 'name that tune' to the old-skool Rock n Roll that's playing on the jukebox.  
We kiss, we laugh, we sing, and even do the twist whilst waiting for desert, thanks to the conveniently small dance-floor thats thoughtfully been provided for customers like ourselves who succumb to the heady mix of being loved-up, alcohol and Motown.

Then afterwards we walk along the river hand-in-hand, and even end up taking a ride on the old fashioned carousel just for the fun of it.

"I love you, Sammy Lewis." Brett calls out from behind me. "Be with me forever and ever!"  
The wind is tearing at his words, as the carousel seems to go unreasonably fast and my horse and his are rising at wildly different intervals, but I twist around so I can see him better.

"Oh I think I can manage that. You'll never get rid of me now. I love you so much, Mister Anderson!" I yell back at him.

"Good to know. Because you're stuck with me now, I'm never going to let you go!"

I'm laughing now, and giddy with emotion and excitement. "This will be something to tell the grandkids about then?" I half-joke, but his response makes me almost lose my grip on the pole.

"Definitely. We can bore them with it at our Ruby wedding anniversary dinner!"

I think I must've misheard him, so I have to double check. "Bore them at our what?"

"Ruby wedding dinner!"

There it is again, and when he repeats it a third time just to make sure I've heard correctly, I swear my heart explodes with joy. I lean back on my horse and whoop with delight, almost toppling over backwards in the process.

I just know that I'm going to love this man forever, and that together we will learn to just simply 'be'  
Everything is going to work out fine.  
Because in this moment the world stops. It stops, and all that exists for me is him.  
There's nothing else. No noise, no other people, no thoughts or worries. No yesterday, and no tomorrow. Only here and now  
The world has stopped, and it is a truly beautiful place....

.....and there is only me and him.

 

♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N* To those who have read this far, I just wanted to say a HUGE thank you for all your support, patience and encouragement. I hope you enjoyed this chapter - as always any feedback/kudos is greatly welcomed.
> 
> There will be one final installment after this in the form of an epilogue, and I promise it won't be as long coming (:


	22. Epilogue

Manchester - Present Day

 

************

 

Damn it's unfeasibly hot in here, or is it just me? Perhaps it's just my hormones, which are without a doubt wreaking havoc with my body temperature these days. Plus it doesn't exactly help matters when I'm unapologetically perving at a very sweaty, open-shirted Brett.

Yeah I know, it's bad. Even now the sight of him still makes me drool. 

The Manchester Apollo is a relatively small venue, which is nice and intimate, but the heat from all the bodies packed in here is like being slowly cooked in an oven...gas mark 12, and all that.

The fevered atmosphere is electric, the noise of dedicated fans screaming and singing along to the lyrics fill the room, and the giddiness I feel transports me right back to my teen years again. It's nostalgia overload, as my heart thuds and flutters in my chest.  
The power of music is incredible and like no other force on earth.  
Music alone has the power to invoke memories we've long since forgotten, and to make us feel carefree and young again.  
It reminds us of the sad times as well as the good times. Happier times. Simpler times.

It also brings people closer together, uniting them. Music breaches all kinds of social barriers.

I'm so stoked by the overall sense of togetherness tonight, that I actually find myself wishing I were here in a different capacity. As a regular fan, a member of the audience, just a girl in the crowd.  
Well, woman.

But I'm here to do a job, and I can't afford to let myself become too distracted or overwhelmed. It would be way too easy to just ditch the camera and think sod it.  
All I want really is to enjoy the show like everyone else, but if I do that I'll be in all kinds of trouble and more importantly......I won't get paid!

Besides, if I'm honest, getting to take photos of Brett is a dream come true for me. Some cynics who know of my back story would probably accuse me of being biased, but I don't give two hoots.  
The camera loves him. He's so damn photogenic, any photographer in their right mind would agree with that. So it's not being biased. Not really.

He's always had an incredible stage presence, and he's still agile, snake-hipped, pouty-lipped and lick-the-mirror sexy. He has not lost his trademark, enviable ability to enthral a crowd as he struts his suff like the true rockstar that he is.

As I manoeuvre around the 'pit' (the gap between the barrier and the stage) leaning this way and crouching that way, in order to snap as many shots as I can from each angle before I change the shutter on my camera, there's a heart-stopping moment when he spins around and I catch his eye.

He holds my gaze for one beautifully brief moment, and then he does it...  
He winks at me.

Please believe me when I say this still has the most peculiar effect on me. As I stand here I can practically feel every nerve in my body stand to attention, and my insides liquify.  
Bloody hell, am I really that lame?  
I'm a grown, irresponsible adult, yet when he winks at me I may as well be 17 again.

His simple action distracts me so badly, I almost trip over one of the many trailing wires that make the pit such a semi-hazardous place, and I have to be steadied by one of the security guys.

Oh hell, how embarrassing. That was a close call.  
It's a good thing he sort-of knows me. I've seen him before at other concerts. A lot of bands use the same security teams, and as I'm a regular on the events circuit - now being a fully established gig photographer - you get to recognise familiar faces. Which comes in great handy when you've misplaced your photo pass.

I thank him, and hastily dart an anxious look up at Brett. I don't think he noticed my stumble  
That is, I hope he didn't.

 

******************

 

It's 11:58pm, and I'm standing shivering in the cold, drizzly October night outside the entrance to the Hilton Hotel, when I ought to really be tucked up cozy and warm in the king size bed that's waiting for me four floors up.

But I can't sleep. I have indigestion and felt a bit sick, so I thought the night air might do me some good. And besides, I'm waiting.

Just then I see a black cab pull up at the side of the road. The rain on the windows obstruct my view inside, so I squint my eyes and wander out from under the safety of the canopy to try and get a better look.  
The rear door swings open, and I smile to myself as the tall, lean figure of Brett climbs elegantly out.

He's whippet-thin these days, but fit and healthy with it. Which can't be said of all rockstars who've indulged in a couple of decades worth of narcotics, late nights and hours on the road.  
No, those days are behind him now. Thank god.

He's dressed in smart black trousers and designer duffel coat, complete with a gentleman's scarf. Admittedly his hair could do with a wash, his long-ish fringe hangs down limply, lacking it's usual shiny lustre due to the sweat he's worked up on stage, and I just know he's going to be longing for a shower.

"Fancy seeing you here." He drawls, upon seeing me stood in the drizzle. My previously straightened, brown (yes I've recently gone brunette again) hair now frizzing to oblivion. "What are you doing out here, Sammy? You're going to catch a cold."

I roll my eyes at him as he scurries forward, ushering me inside.  
His attentiveness is unarguably sweet and endearing, but if he's going to keep fussing over me like this for the next six months it's going to drive me round the bend. 

"You'd better get used to it." Blandine had warned me when I recently bemoaned the woes of him treating me like I'm ill or disabled. "Make the most of it, Sam. A lot of women would love to be pampered like that."

And she's right, I know they would.

"I was waiting for you. What took you so long?" I ask as we make our way through the deserted foyer.

"Sorry, sweet. I ended up doing a bit of an impromptu interview for the Manchester Evening News...of all things. But you could've just called me."

"Um, I tried! But your phone was dead. Honestly Brett, what's the point of having a bloody mobile phone if you never charge it?"

"Shit. I forgot to pack my charger."

"Yes you did, so it's a good thing I packed it! It's in my bag." I inform him, and he gives me one of his lethal smiles which makes it impossible to remain vexed with him.

"What would I do without you?" He chuckles, wrapping a protective arm around me as we stand and wait for the lift. "Although, I think the helpful note you left by my keys the other day that said 'keys' on it, was a bit much. Was that in case I thought they were llamas or something?"

I laugh, a little too raucously than the night manager on reception deems appropriate for this time of night, and he fires a noticeably disapproving glance in our direction.  
Luckily the door to the elevator opens right on time, and we step inside, sniggering like a couple of school children.

"Well, I've lost count of the hours of my life I'll never get back, helping you find the things that are in plain sight." I say teasingly.

"Alright, snarky." He grins, bumping me ever-so-gently with his hip. "I don't go on about the way you still bring up that one time you managed to cook dinner without burning it, as if it's going to get the baby into Oxford."

"Bugger off! Cheeky sod!" 

The lift pings as we arrive on our floor, and we exit the lift quietly. Talking in hushed tones as we make our way along the carpeted hallway. 

"Well now I've got that interview out of the way it means we can head home in the morning." He whispers, his wide smile brightening his face. "That gives me the rest of the week to finish painting the nursery."

I smile to myself as I fumble in my jeans pocket for the room key card.  
He really is the most adorable man in the universe.  
Sure he has his annoying little habits, who doesn't? I know I have a  lorry-load of my own, which at times bugs the living crap out of him.  
But I still find some of his endearing.  
Like the way he's doing his best to give up smoking to support me, being as I quit since I learned I was pregnant.

At one point I had to confiscate his nicorette inhalator because he was using that as well as using the patches too.  
I even caught him wearing near enough the full pack last weekend. Driven to desperation he'd stuck several all up his arms in the hopes of  getting them to 'work'  
Bless him.  
He is really trying. Though on occasion he still sneaks outside for the odd cig on the sly, and he thinks I don't know but I do.  
Using the ruse of stroking the neighbours cat, doesn't really wash. No matter how much I know he adores cats.

He holds the door ajar for me now so I can step inside, and no sooner has it closed behind us when he grabs me and kisses me deeply. His solid body presses mine up against the wall, and I slide my hands inside his coat then up under his shirt. I can feel the warm dampness of his skin and his muscles react, bunching and moving beneath my touch.

Oh, hello.  
Is all I can think to myself.  
Helloooooo.

His amorous attentions have me heating up instantaneously, and I must say I couldn't think of a better, more pleasurable distraction from my heartburn and nausea.  
We are wrapped up in kissing each other silly. His hand slides to the back of my neck and into my hair, making me shiver and I moan into his mouth.  
He tastes clean, and despite needing a post-performance shower he still smells clean too. Of my lavender soap to be exact, and I smile mid-kiss.

Then, quite unexpectedly he pulls back haltingly, and looks at me all concerned. "Wait, I'm not squashing you am I?" He places a large hand tenderly on my barely-there baby bump.

I sigh, but can't help smiling goofily at him. "Not at all, Wolfie. Please, stop worrying."

"Hm. Sorry. I can't help it." He looks unsure now, and I can anticipate what he's going to say next. "I need to have a quick wash anyway, beautiful. But don't feel you have to stay awake for me though. You need your rest."

"Ah ha." I stifle a giggle, whilst resisting the urge to sigh again with frustration.  
Honestly, there are times when I think his predictability could be infuriating if he wasn't so damn lovable.

He slips his coat off and slinks into the bathroom, leaving me to my own devices.  
I take my own coat off and plonk down on the bed, grabbing the TV remote to flip through the channels.  
A moment later I hear the shower running, then the sound of a loud thud, followed by a muffled string of curses.

"Are you okay?" I frown and look toward the wall. "You did it again didn't you?"

"Yep." He calls back, and I don't even bother to muffle my laugh. "Why does it feel like having a bloody brick dropped on your foot? Or a  can of cat food!"

He does this every time - forgets to take his phone out of his pocket before he goes into the bathroom, then drops it, usually because he's got wet hands. I'm pretty sure Apple are making millions from the cost of Brett's phone repairs alone.

"Come in here and I'll kiss it better for you." I say with a laugh. Joking obviously, because as much as I adore every square inch of Brett, I draw the line at kissing his feet.  
I mean, if you're into that kind of thing then fine....but it certainly doesn't float my boat.

But I know that my offer will draw him out of the bathroom, which amuses me no end.

I hear the scuffling sound of rapidly moving feet, and he swings the door open, all legs and arms. 

"Is that right?" He asks, grinning salaciously at me. 

He's half-dressed, his trousers still on but unzipped, and shirtless.  
Yowza.  
I stand up, and he saunters over to me like a long, lean panther. And then he's stood right in front of me

"I could think of better bits you could kiss." He murmurs into my ear.

I squeak and place my hands flat against the smooth wall of his chest, pushing him back towards the bathroom, he steps back a couple of paces but he's not quite there yet.

"Sorry, that was graphic wasn't it?" He chuckles.

I nod. "Yes it was, but you know I rather like graphic." I push him again and this time I achieve my goal.  
"Fancy washing my hair, Mister Anderson?"

His eyes never leave my face, as he enfolds me in his strong arms, a tiny confused but hopeful smile on his pillowy lips. "Maybe....but only if you scrub my back for me, Missus Anderson."

Then we're kissing again, and the world stops spinning, everything else falling out of focus. Even the noise of the water hitting the tiled wall, fades into the background, and there are no other sounds but our heartbeats and our breathing.

 

Don't get me wrong, our marriage isn't all rainbows and butterflies. Nobody's relationship is. Some days I think Brett is too precious to ever die, other days I think he should be buried alive. Well....not really. I'm joking of course.  
I suppose the point I'm trying to make is relationships don't come ready-made, they come in kit-form and you have to work at it together as a team.  
I'll freely admit it hasn't always been easy. We've had our ups and downs like any other couple, and at times we've both been tested sorely.  
We've had to rough out periods of separation due to mine and Brett's work, as well as other more complex trials and tribulations that have on more than one occasion pushed us to the limits of our endurance.

We even had a trial 'break' by mutual agreement back in 2001, during a particularly turbulent time when Suede temporarily disbanded, and Brett went through a self-destructive phase of overindulging in recreational drugs. My moods grew lower and lower as a result, and it all became too much.

However, it would seem our bond was so strongly forged it proved we couldn't live without each other. With each other's support and love we made it through.  
Brett sorted himself out with the aid of rehab, and I stood by him. His recovery was enough to help with my depression and anxiety.

Our unshakable devotion got us to where we are today, and I will always stand by him. Through thick and thin, as I know he will me.  
We cemented our union four years ago by getting hitched, after being engaged for several years.

My mum finally warmed to him, though there was one time after I'd transferred from Manchester Uni to London back in 1997, when she actually accused Brett of deliberately trying to poison her when he cooked us all a meal.  
She'd come down for a visit, and neglected to mention her peanut allergy to him.  
It was a bit hair raising, but hey, the three of us have looked back on the incident since and at least been able to laugh about it.  
That's definitely a story worth telling the grandkids.

Like my dad and Jane, my mum can barely contain her excitement at becoming a grandparent.  
Her new husband Stuart, is equally happy for us, along with the new step-brother I've gained, Simon - who incidentally looks disturbingly like John Travolta.

Needless to say Blandine is beyond thrilled as well, and can hardly wait to spoil her new nephew.  
This is going to be the most-loved, precious little baby in the world, with the most caring, and dare I say 'coolest' family ever.  
We've even talked about having Alex and Jarvis as Godfathers.  
I mean seriously, c'mon. How awesome is that?

All in all, things have worked out nicely.  
Very nicely indeed.

Brett's solo career is going swimmingly well, and I jumped at the chance of being his personal photographer on this tour to promote his latest album.  
He frets that being on the road is too much for me, but I'm enjoying the excitement and the madness of it all whilst I still can.

I have to be closely monitored by the maternity hospital, due to my diabetes, but so far everything is hunky dory.  
I know I'll have to take it much easier once I'm passed the six month mark, but by then I'll no doubt be ready for a rest.

And once the baby arrives, it'll be a new kind of madness entirely. Which I'm thoroughly looking forward to.  
There are no words to describe how excited and happy I am. 

Brett will be a wonderful father, and there isn't a day that goes by when I don't thank my lucky stars that Mark 'broke my heart' which in turn led to me taking that fateful trip to London.

At that time I didn't ever want to love someone again, but from the first moment Brett smiled at me, I blew it.  
It didn't take long before I realised I wanted him to be a permanent part of my world.

Actually, who am I trying to kid?

He is my world.

I chose to take every step along the way, walking hand-in-hand with him.  
He is the love of my life.  
Because of him I believe in fate and destiny.  
And regardless of the difficult times we've been through, I don't regret a single second of it. It's been one hell of a roller coaster, and with Brett by my side, the ride always will be well worth it.  
I wouldn't want to navigate this bumpy track which we call life with anyone else.

In any lifetime in fact, in any version of reality......I'd choose him.

 

                                    ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ The End    ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N*
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking it out til the end, if you've enjoyed this story please let me know.  
> Also, I am toying with the idea of writing an additional series of one-shots in the format of a diary about Sammy and Brett's day-to-day life. I may even feature some of these from Brett's POV. If you think this would be something that may interest you, please let me know in the comments.
> 
> Thanks again, you all rock! xD


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